The Fall of Night
by HardlyFatal
Summary: Elrond, Haldir, and an old friend make a wager... can the twins and Rumil make a humourless young woman laugh? COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing but an '89 Caddy Eldorado with a broken tape deck, and you're welcome to it.

The Fall of Night Part 1

"They are so beautiful," Lalaith murmured in awe as she helped her grandmother from the cart, her gaze lingering first on one elf, then another. "Nana, how is it possible?"

"Well, first of all, you've always been easily impressed," Naurë told her with a grin, then sighed when no answering smile was forthcoming. Her granddaughter was ever solemn—an unfortunate inheritance from her Rohirrim mother. Naurë knew she shouldn't have let her son marry a sourpuss from Edoras…

But even though it might be far too late to mourn her son's poor choice of mate, she might still be able to hold some sway over her granddaughter. Ever since Elrond had invited her to Rivendell, she had been uneasy about having Lalaith accompany her. The girl was serious, and most naïve in the ways of the world. She didn't understand the duplicity of Man, and Naurë feared the Elven predilection for flirtation and wit would confuse the straightforward, uncomplicated Lalaith into making bad decisions with her life.

And more importantly, with her heart. Naurë knew how susceptible Lalaith was to beauty—there was little enough of it in Bree these days, and even the old woman had to admit that the elves that surrounded them, tall and strong and so very handsome, were enchantingly beautiful. 

"Beautiful is empty, Lalaith," she told the young woman with uncharacteristic solemnity. "Beautiful loves no one, it will strip you until regret is all that is left." She squeezed her granddaughter's smooth, young hands in her own gnarled, aged ones. "Be you careful."

That being said, Naurë peered past the girl with a gaze as sharp as they'd been three-quarters of a century ago, searching among the sea of blond heads for a dark one. "Elrond! My old eyes are gladdened to rest upon you."

The elf stepped forward and bent without hesitation to drop a kiss on the withered cheek. "Naurë, you honour me," he replied, and smiled. "Have you brought some of your family for me to meet at last?"

"I have," she affirmed, and gestured to Lalaith. "This is my granddaughter Lalaith, youngest child of my youngest child." The girl stepped forward and performed a curtsey 

"She is named 'laughter'?" he asked, the faintest touch of doubt in his voice as he looked thoughtfully at her. Her face was sober and her eyes, while intelligent and curious, held not the sparkle of wit and amusement that were ever-present in her grandmother's.

Naurë sighed. "My son was blessed with an unfortunate sense of irony," she replied. "Lalaith is a fine woman, but I despair of ever seeing her smile." She leaned closer to the elf to whisper confidingly, "I even tried getting her drunk, but all she did was fall asleep." 

Elrond began to laugh helplessly. "It has been far too long since your last visit, meldisamin [my friend]."

"I agree," she said, taking the proffered elbow and leaning upon it, allowing him to help her walk. She slid a sharp glance at him. "If you have missed me so, why then has this invitation been so long in coming?"

Elrond laughed. "I could make the excuse that elves do not so easily see the time slip by, but you would not allow that, would you?"

Naurë laughed too, a dry sound that drew the attention of many around them. "You know me well, my lord." 

"I doubt even an elf could live long enough to know you well, Naurë," he demurred, and she barked out another laugh. 

"Ha! I am but a simple woman, my lord," she told him. "My needs and desires are few—a warm bed, a full belly, and—" she squinted across the courtyard at an elf who had just entered on the other side. "Haldir?"

"Haldir is one of your simple needs?" Elrond asked slyly. 

"Haldir is indeed simple," Naurë replied, just as sly. "But I fear the only itch he would be able to scratch faded many years ago, along with any small beauty I might have had." They both threw back their heads and roared with laughter.

"Why is it that you two always sound like witches cackling over an evil brew when you are together?" Haldir asked when he met them in the middle of the courtyard, 

"We only cackle when we're making fun of you, Guardian of Lorien," Naurë told him with a grin. 

"Then I must truly be a font of amusement," the march-warden said, bowing over her hand. "Because the pair of you never fail to sound like a clutch of brooding hens." His blue eyes flicked past to the girl standing behind them. "Are you aware that you are being followed?"

"This is my granddaughter, Lalaith," Naurë said, "and you will not fall in love with her. One humourless stump in the family is quite enough, I could not bear it if I had to gaze upon your unsmiling face the rest of my few years."

Haldir shot her an odd look, and bowed over Lalaith's hand as she curtseyed to him. "I do not think there is any fear of that, Naurë," he said when he'd straightened to his full height, and graced her with one of his sweet, rare smiles. "You know my heart has always belonged to you."

Naurë laughed then, a strong laugh that sounded remarkably young, and exchanged Elrond's arm for Haldir's. "You are good for an old woman," she told him. "Even if you are shamefully dishonest." He began to lead her away but she stopped and addressed Elrond. "We are not done yet, sir elf," she told him, and he bowed.

"I am ever at your disposal, madam," he told her with mock deference, and she cackled again as she and Haldir walked away, the tall elf shortening his stride to match her arthritic one.

Lalaith was feeling very close to being overwhelmed by her surroundings. Rivendell was amazingly lovely, its plants so green and lush, its river so silver and sparkling, its buildings so graceful and organic in the way they nestled into the trees and rocks. 

And its people… she sighed with unconscious appreciation. Never in her life had she imagined that living creatures could be so exquisite, their every movement an exercise in liquid grace. She had always been considered somewhat attractive, but surrounded by these divine-looking elves she was feeling very self-conscious indeed, and tried to brush the travel dust from her gown with one hand as she attempted to smooth her wind-rumpled hair with the other.

"Do not fret," said a deep voice, and she looked up to see Elrond smiling at her. "A bath awaits you. We are aware of the hardships of travel, and do you not judge you because of the dust."

Lalaith nodded and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow when he offered. "Your home is breathtaking," she told Elrond. "Thank you so much for sharing it with us."

"Naurë is always welcome here," he said simply. "As are you."

She nodded again. "You are most kind."

"Not at all," he insisted gently, pushing open a door and waving her through. "Her skills at healing have made her a valuable ally, and her personality has made her a valuable friend." His gaze moved over her face a long moment. "You have much the look of her in her youth," he said at last. "It is difficult seeing her…" Elrond's voice faded away.

"So old?" Lalaith supplied. "Yes." The last decade had not been kind to her Nana; the deaths of both her children had weighed heavily on a body that no longer boasted the strength and resilience of youth. "It troubles me, as well, that her last years are upon her."

Elrond stopped at a door of dark, intricately carved wood with brass filigree framing the central knob. "Then glad I am that she has come to Rivendell one last time." He opened the door and gestured inward. "This is your room; if anything is not to your liking, you have only to say it."

"I'm sure it will be perfect," she replied, and curtseyed her thanks. He bowed and left her, and she closed the door softly before turning to survey her surroundings. The walls were plastered a soft, creamy colour, and the fan-vaults reaching to the ceiling were shaped like tree branches. Coloured glass sparkled in the windows, and jewel-shades of light cascaded over the floor, which glowed with age and cleanliness. 

Lalaith barely had time to notice the large, inviting bed against the far wall when there was a soft knock at the door. Answering it, she found a female elf standing there, her arms loaded with towels, a cube of soap, and crystal bottles filled with pearlescent liquid.

"I am Aerlinn," she introduced herself. "I will help you refresh yourself, and then guide you to the hall for the feast." She stepped inside the room and gestured to the elves behind her, who carried a large wooden tub. "For your bath," Aerlinn explained. 

Almost before she knew it, Lalaith had been stripped of her dirty travelling gown and pushed gently into the tub of steaming tub. Herbs and scented oils were poured into the water, making it silky, and Lalaith sank gratefully into it, sighing when Aerlinn began to wash her hair. 

"Was the journey difficult?" Aerlinn asked companionably.

"Not difficult, but long," Lalaith replied. She never wanted to get out of the tub, ever. "Nana travels well for her age, but still, it is hard to watch her be jolted in the cart, and harder still to see her pain in the mornings after sleeping on the ground."

"I could not imagine the anguish you must feel at seeing your beloved family age and die," Aerlinn said, and Lalaith knew the elf meant it kindly, but could not repress a wince at the bluntness of the words. 

"It is part of life," she said at last, scrubbing the last of herself with a soapy cloth. The entire room smelled of flowers and rain, but the turn of the conversation prevented it from being soothing. "It cannot be avoided."

"It seems so hopeless," Aerlinn murmured, sluicing clean water over Lalaith's hair. "How do you bear it?"

Lalaith stood and let wash off the suds that clung to her body. "There is no alternative," she replied with a shrug. "What else is there to do, but bear it?" She thought a moment. "It makes each day more precious."

Aerlinn handed Lalaith a towel, and took one herself to begin drying the woman's hair. "Humans are stronger and more resilient than I had thought," she said at last, and smiled. It was like the sun breaking over the horizon. "I am glad to know you, Lalaith."

Lalaith nodded. "And I you, Aerlinn." It was true. Lalaith knew little of elfkind, and this conversation had been most enlightening to her. She doubted she would enjoy eternal life, if it made a person so fragile that one couldn't bear the most basic of facts. 

Aerlinn opened the door and, in a show of strength at odds with her fragile beauty, dragged in the trunk that had been deposited outside. Opening it, she began to rifle through the clothing within. "Have you a particular gown in mind?" she asked.

Lalaith considered. All her garments were practical and sturdy, made for longevity, not splendor. Unfortunately, they looked it, and she felt a pang of dismay she hadn't made more of an effort to outfit herself more attractively. Looking at Aerlinn, she saw too that the elf was wearing a gown of extreme simplicity, but the lines of it were very flattering. Perhaps during her stay in Rivendell, she could re-cut and re-sew her gowns…

She sighed. "The green, I think," she said at last. "It's the least ugly."

Aerlinn giggled. "We are of a similar height and shape," she said. "I will fetch you one of my gowns for tonight, and tomorrow we will see what can be done with these." Her expression didn't hold much hope. 

"Oh, no—" Lalaith began, but Aerlinn was already flitting from the room. Lalaith sighed and slumped onto the edge of the bed, rubbing a towel through her hair until it was mostly dry. She was combing out the tangles when Aerlinn returned. 

In her arms was a gorgeous confection of a dress—light pink underdress with flowers and butterflies embroidered all over in white silk thread, and an overdress in coral velvet, embossed round the very full sleeves with ivy. "I could not dare," Lalaith breathed, but Aerlinn waved aside her protests.

"It will look better on you than it ever did on me," she said breezily, and tugged the underdress over Lalaith's head. "Your dark hair will be much finer on the rose-pink than my pale mess." She pushed a flawlessly smooth lock of platinum over her shoulder and reached for the overdress. 

"Now for your hair," she announced, and took control of the comb. "Braids, or no braids?"

"Perhaps just one," Lalaith conceded, and Aerlinn's nimble fingers began parting and sorting the heavy, barely-damp hair. She wove it into a loose but nevertheless intricate plait, and when she finally allowed the human to look in the mirror, beamed like a proud mother.

"I look…" Lalaith could barely speak, so amazed was she at the transformation.

"Breathtaking," Aerlinn finished. "Now help me get ready," she commanded, and Lalaith was more than happy to do so. 

The elf had brought a gown of leaf-green silk that floated over the pearly-white lace underdress she donned. Lalaith helped her plait her hip-length silver-gilt hair into the traditional three braids. Declaring them ready to face the others, Aerlinn led the way out of the room.

*

Naurë was grateful for the hot bath, and sank onto the bed afterwards for a short nap. Feeling greatly refreshed when she awoke, she dressed with the help of an elf sent by Elrond for that purpose and was not surprised to find Haldir outside her door when she stepped outside.

"You will get a reputation for being a pervy old-lady fancier if you will insist on escorting me everywhere, Guardian," she teased him as she leaned on his arm. 

"But it will do wonders for **your** reputation, will it not?" he shot back.

"That it will," she admitted with a cackle, and gripped his arm just a little tighter. She'd only met him once before, over thirty years ago, but their friendship had been instantaneous. In spite of his forbidding appearance and serious nature, she found he had a delightful, if sly, sense of humour than never failed to make her laugh even when the elves around them stared in puzzlement. 

And he seemed to relish flirting with her, which was the best of all—no matter how Man liked to pretend that its old people were genderless and sexless, she knew that her mind was all too willing even if the flesh were weak. Ah, if only she were sixty years younger…

She spied her granddaughter being led into the hall by a lovely elf-maiden, and smiled. "I was almost as lovely as Lalaith in my youth," she told Haldir proudly as he led her to a table. 

"Beautiful is empty, Naurë," he replied softly, helping her into a chair. "Is it not?" he asked when she started, and stared at him. 

Naurë recovered, and grinned at him. "Stop reading my mind, Guardian." Elrond was making his way across the hall. "Be you gone," she instructed him. 

He bowed and left, quickly replaced by Elrond. "So, you are feeling up to an evening of feasting and dancing?"

"Feasting, yes, indeed," she replied, and allowed him to fill her plate with delicious food from the platters placed before them. "Dancing? I highly doubt it." She peered more closely at him. "You are up to something."

"I?" he asked, his handsome face entirely too innocent as he popped a morsel of bread into his mouth. "Whatever can you mean?"

"Elrond, I have known you for almost seventy years. You trained me as a healer; we have worked closely for over half a century. I **always** know when you are up to something." She glared at him over the rim of her goblet.

He sighed dramatically and busied himself with buttering more bread. "Why could my apprentice not have been one of those particularly dull humans?" he asked no one in particular. 

"Because you would have gutted me like a trout were I particularly dull, and well you know it," Naurë retorted, snatching the abused bread from his hands. "Now, tell me."

He turned to her excitedly, eyes sparkling with mischief. "My sons are returned home from their travails with the Dunedain." 

"Glad I am to hear of their safe homecoming, my lord, but I fail to see—"

He cut her off. "If there are two elves in Middle-Earth who can make a person laugh, would it not be those two?"

Naurë was beginning to see what he was about. "And you think to set them upon my poor, unsuspecting granddaughter?" She searched the room for Lalaith. The girl was, as Naurë feared, seated with Elladan beside her and Elrohir across the table, with the pretty elf-maiden close by. Naurë shook her head at her friend. "I feel naught but pity for them, because it is a thankless and hopeless task," she said sadly.

Elrond cocked his head at her. "Would you care to make a wager on that?" he asked, entirely too casually.


	2. Chapter 2

The Fall of Night Part 2

The next morning Naurë was sunning herself in the garden, enjoying the warmth on her face and the scent of flowers and greenery in the air when the whisper of footsteps in the grass alerted her to someone's presence. 

Opening her eyes, she saw Haldir fling himself down to recline at her feet, and knew that he'd made noise on purpose, so as to not startle her. In spite of his size and build, he was as silent as a ghost when he wanted to be, and if it had been his intention to sneak up on her, he would have.

"Good morn, Naurë," he said to her, and plucked a blade of grass. 

She nodded to him. "You are well?" she asked, her eyes sharp on his face as she recalled how deeply he'd drunk of Rivendell's fine wine the previous night.

He slanted her a look, "Of course," he said at last. "Am I ever less than completely perfect?"

Naurë rolled her eyes. Really, the arrogance of the elf was astounding. "If your head swells any bigger, there will be no room for aught else in this garden," she told him severely, swatting at him.

He ignored her, as he always did when she was scolding him, and placed the blade of grass between his white, even teeth. "I would know what you and Lord Elrond were discussing so intently."

"You would, would you?" she asked evasively, settling more deeply into the nest of blankets wrapped around her. Even this late spring day was not warm enough for her old bones. "The breeze chills me," she complained, hoping to distract him.

Hazarding a glance at him, she sighed—it had not worked. He merely waited, his blue eyes watching her calmly. Elves were known for their patience, and Haldir was known amoung elves for his. He could wait for an **age** if he had to.

"Very well," she said grudgingly. To Haldir's credit, he did not smirk at her acquiescence as she knew he longed to. "Elrond has wagered that his sons can make Lalaith smile and laugh, and I have wagered they cannot." She peered up at the clear sky, admiring the patterns made by the sunlight filtering through the leaves, so she did not have to meet his gaze.

Haldir discarded his soggy grass-blade and selected another. "I would agree with you, Naurë," he said at last. "I doubt those two are up to the task of entertaining your granddaughter." But her smile of satisfaction was not to last long. "If there were ever an elf in Middle-Earth suitable to the challenge, it would be Rûmil."

"Rûmil?" Naurë searched her mind for some memory of an elf by that name. "I know no Rûmil."

"My youngest brother," Haldir elaborated. "And a more mischievous, amusing soul has never walked this earth." He raised his eyebrows at her blatant skepticism. "Obviously, he is nothing like me."

She raised a matching eyebrow. "You are plenty mischievous for my taste," she told him sourly. "Any more mischief from you thirty years ago and I'd not be here to tell the tale today."

Thoroughly unconcerned with her rebuke, he reclined to lay flat on his back and rested his head on his hands, closing his eyes in bliss as the light breeze caressed his face. "It was your own foolishness that roused that band of orcs," he replied smoothly. "Had you but listened to me—in case you have forgotten, I have almost four thousand years of experience as a warrior—you would have had more of their poisoned arrows to study than ever you needed, but always have you been headstrong."

"Wasn't being headstrong," she grumbled. "Didn't want you to get hurt ambushing them."

Haldir propped himself up on his elbow to stare at her. "So you thought that sneaking alone into their camp in the middle of the day was a better alternative?"

"It would have been," Naurë insisted, "if you hadn't come barreling after me shouting like a fishwife."

"A fishwife?" he repeated, his baritone just a **tetch** higher in outrage. "Is that how you remember it, my lady? Because my recollection is that you were but moments from evisceration had I not 'barreled' in and distracted them."

"By shouting like a fishwife," Naurë finished complacently. "And you are certainly not showing much gratitude to the woman who saved your life with her healing skills."

He snorted indelicately. "My life would not have been remotely endangered had your antics not resulted in me getting shot." He rolled over onto his belly and pulled up several dozen bits of grass in rapid succession, the only hint to his agitation. "Do you know that it took thirteen years for those scars to fade?"

"The Guardian of Lorien was flawed for over a decade?" Naurë asked mockingly. "However did the ladies—and lords, if rumor be true, my fine elf—recover from that cruel blow?" She leaned forward and tapped a gnarled finger on the crown of his pale-blond head. "Moreover, how did the Guardian himself bear being the possessor of such an imperfection?"

Anger flared in his eyes before they cleared of all emotion, like a window being shuttered. "Your deftness in angering me has not abated with the years," he said finally, turning his attention to shredding the grass before him. "You remain one of the few who can."

Naurë flattened her palm on his head, feeling the silken strands snag on her rough calluses. "Haldir," she said, and smiled at him when he looked grudgingly up at her. "You know how dearly I prize any ability I have in stirring you." It was the closest she would come to an apology or an admittance of her affection for him. 

But before he could answer, a shadow fell upon them. "I see by the way the march-warden is mauling my grass that you are squabbling again," Elrond commented, a faint smile tilting a corner of his mouth. "Who is winning? You are well-matched; I would say it is once again a draw, is it not?"

Haldir decided to get over his tendency to sulk and pulled gracefully into a cross-legged sitting posture. Snatching up the wrinkled hand that lay on Naurë's lap, he kissed the age-spotted back of it with aplomb. "As it always is," he said gallantly, and let his own mouth quirk a little at the arch look she gave him.

Elrond dropped to the ground on Naurë's other side. "What has you bickering on such a fine morning?"

"Haldir but berates me for the foolishness of my youth," Naurë said with a laugh. "I was a mere lass of sixty-two, a widowed grandmother, but he would have you think me an untried virgin on her first journey out of the city."

"And now you are ninety-four, and still not more appreciably wise," Haldir shot back. "Do you wonder why I—"

Elrond held up a hand and the other elf fell silent. "Haldir, I know how you fear for Naurë's safety, but do you not see how she is ready to beat you about the head and shoulders?" Indeed, the old woman had a certain glint in her eye that bespoke of great violence to come if only she could lay her hands on a stout cane. "I beg you, let there be peace."

Haldir smiled a smile of most unconvincing pleasantness. "Naurë," he said, "You know how dearly I prize any ability I have in stirring you."

Naurë's only response was to flounce as best as an elderly woman could while seated and swathed in a half-dozen fuzzy blankets, and turn pointedly away from the blond elf to face the dark one. "How pleasant to see you this morn, Elrond," she said amiably, dimpling at him.

It was most unnerving, he thought, how she could appear such a sweet, matronly grandmother, so harmless. Only those who knew her well, like himself and Haldir, could know how deceiving appearances could be…"I have come to settle the prize for when I win our wager."

Naurë smirked. "I think you mean **my** prize, for when **I** win." Haldir rolled his eyes.

Elrond waved his hand airily. "I concede only that you have a chance—albeit, a slim one—to win. I have every confidence in my sons, and the susceptibility of your granddaughter."

She quirked a brow. "You forget that I know Lalaith her whole life. I birthed the girl, and raised her when that fool of a mother of hers ran off with that silk merchant from Rhûn." Naurë tilted her head to one side, looking very like an inquisitive, bright-eyed bird. "Not even the most mischievous, amusing soul to ever walk this earth could make her laugh."

The gleam of competition lit Haldir's eyes. "You are as subtle as an arrow through the neck, Naurë," he murmured, finally leaving off his mutilation of the lawn when Elrond eyed him with ire. "What are your terms?"

Naurë grinned; it was a most untrustworthy and actually quite worrying smile. "If your Rûmil can make my Lalaith smile, I will continue my silence about that embarrassing little incident with those dwarves…"

Elrond's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline as Haldir scowled in the fierce way that had frightened many an orc. "I would hear this tale," the lord of Rivendell declared.

"You and scores of others," Naurë murmured. "But no, I must have some scrap to bargain with."

"Then tell me what scandal you hide to wager against me?" Elrond pressed.

"No scandal, fine sir," she replied, eyes atwinkle. "Merely a few apothecary recipes of which you are less than proud."

He frowned. "You cannot mean… no! You cannot mean to reveal…"

"The aphrodisiac, yes," Naurë told him as Elrond blushed furiously.

"You developed an aphrodisiac?" Haldir asked, incredulous. "You?"

"Yes, I," Elrond practically snarled. "Human physiology interests me."

"Especially the sexual aspects of it," Naurë added helpfully. He only glared at her.

"I was interested in what stimulated human arousal, if it were anything like that of elfkind." Elrond folded his arms across his chest, looking for the world like he was having a grand pout. "The aphrodisiac was developed almost by mistake."

"Almost," Naurë emphasized between wheezes as she laughed. "But not quite."

"You will tell no one," Elrond told Haldir, eyeing him fiercely. 

Haldir only raised a brow and smirked. "You can hope," he replied genially, to which Elrond frowned darkly.

"Come now," Naurë said, a hand patting the arm of each elf. "Haldir is the most honourable elf ever born; you know he would not divulge your shameful secret." Her assurances were somewhat diminished by her most inelegant giggles.

Haldir was not terribly impressed with her words, either. "And now that you have revealed your terms, Lady, I suggest you say what you expect of us." Under his breath, he grumbled, "Most honourable elf ever born; does she think me stupid? I know she flatters to get her way."

"Actually, haughty Guardian, she means that; often has she said it," Elrond informed him, and he looked up to see Naurë watching him with an indulgent smile. "But I agree with Haldir; great is my apprehension to hear what you want of us should we lose."

Naurë's smile turned bittersweet, and she dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap. "I am not long for middle-earth, friends," she said at last. "My last years are upon me. Indeed, this could be my last." She looked up to find them watching her soberly. "I fear for Lalaith. Her mother is gone this last score of years; her father is dead. My daughter also is gone, and her son is a merchant; ever is he aboard a ship bound to the Corsairs for trade. He could not make a home for Lalaith."

She took a shuddering breath while they waited patiently for her to continue. "Lalaith is talented in the healing arts, but has none of the demeanor needed to deal with patients. I fear she scares them with her intensity and sobriety. She will not be able to continue my healing practice; she will not be able to support herself. I fear she will simply marry any man who will give her a home, and though she is not a fun woman, she is a good woman, and my grandchild. I would not have her come to that end, in a loveless marriage of convenience and desperation."

"I would not have that either, _meldisamin_," Elrond murmured, his keen eyes never leaving her face. "What would you have us do?"

"I would have you give my Lalaith a home, after I am gone," Naurë told him, then glanced at Haldir. "Or you, should your Rûmil prove himself best suited to making her laugh."

"A wager is not necessary to ask this favour of us, Naurë," Haldir said quietly. "You know you have only to ask it, and we would take her gladly."

"Ah, but this way it feels less like an imposition and more like a business deal. This way, I can live with my bruised pride," she informed him, attempting a smile. 

"Your Lalaith has a home with me as long as she wishes," Elrond said. "Even if my Elrohir and Elladan fail."

Haldir nodded. "And with me, even if my Rûmil fails." His mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Unlikely as that is."

  
Naurë had to turn away, staring fixedly at the waterfall in the distance, to hide the tears that sprung to her eyes. "Much do I love you both," she whispered. "It pains me deeply to have to leave you."

"Hide not your tears from us, Naurë," Elrond said. "For we are pained by it also." She turned back to see the elves watching her, tears in their eyes as well. She reached out and grasped their hands, squeezing with as much strength as she had. "This promise is made, this bond is forged."

"It is done," Haldir agreed, and squeezed back tenderly, feeling the fragility of brittle bones under parchment skin. 

"It is done," Naurë repeated. "I am much eased by it."

Elrond smiled crookedly. "Then shall we return to the hall? For this outpouring of emotion has quite depleted me; I am starving."


	3. Chapter 3

The Fall of Night, Part 3

The workroom was large and airy, quite unlike any other Lalaith had seen. Tall windows with scenes in coloured glass filled the space with light, and the high, arched ceiling made her voice echo most pleasingly. It would be a delightful venue in which to sing, she decided. If only her throat could produce a sound that was not like that of a very sickly raven…

Lalaith sighed, and set to work. She stood before the large table, a wicked-looking pair of shears in her hand, trying to decide which of her gowns would be first to get the chop. Aerlinn stood beside her, her gaze alternating between the gowns on the table, and her new friend, who was eyeing the gowns in a rather predatory fashion.

"You are not nervous about ruining them?" Aerlinn asked. "We are not seamstresses."

"Indeed not," Lalaith replied, and selected the green one, which had previously been identified as the least ugly the night before. "Money is ever tight with Nana and I; we are always remaking our clothes to get another year's wear from them." She ran the shears up a seam, parting the front from the back, and sighed. "And it is not as if they could get any worse."

"That is for certain," Aerlinn agreed, her voice quiet as she accepted the piece of fabric and began to run an iron over it, smoothing out the wrinkles and creases left by the seams. "We shall make a masterpiece of it! None shall be able to resist you!"

Lalaith glanced at the elf, and removed a sleeve from the gown. "My grandmother is always saying the same, that none can resist me, and yet here I stand, unwed and a virgin. You will forgive my skepticism, I hope?"

"Well," Aerlinn ventured, "You are somewhat… forbidding… in demeanor. Little do I know of Men, but much do I know of Elves, and laughter and a smile go far in attracting them."

"Men are much the same as Elves in that respect, then," Lalaith said. "But Nana is to blame for it, as she has ever told me to be myself, and never to change who I am to please a man." She turned to Aerlinn, hands filled with fabric. "This is who I am. Humorless, serious, with never a smile. Perhaps there is someone who will not me me as I am; perhaps not. I will not wait for him."

Aerlinn took the dress pieces with a sigh. "I hope there is, for it pains me to see my ne friend alone." She ironed in silence a long moment while Lalaith started dismembering the brown dress. "I wonder… perhaps we could dye these, and improve their colour."

"Think you I am not aware of your change in subject?" Lalaith asked wryly. "I am; but I will go along. This brown is a most disgusting colour."

Aerlinn eyed it for a long moment. "I do not think there is aught we can do to salvage that one," she sighed at last. "Unless you will wear black. But this," she said, and lifted a light blue gown from the table. "This, we can put into a bath of brighter blue. Your hair and skin can take the colours of jewels; these pastel tones will do naught for you. The green, as well; we shall dye it the colour of an emerald."

Lalaith's eyes lit with excitement. "Let us begin!"

Aerlinn left the room to arrange for the dye baths, and Lalaith tossed the remnants of the brown dress over her shoulder and began to cut apart the blue gown.

"I cry mercy!" begged a laughing voice from behind her. "What have I done, to merit such a missile sent my way?"

Lalaith spun around, huge shears held threateningly in her hand, to see an elf in the doorway, a piece of brown skirt draped over his shoulder while a sleeve fell over his head, covering one eye. The rest of the hideous gown lay in a heap at his feet. "I am sorry," she told him, and set the shears down before coming to pluck the offending bits of material from him. 

"Quite alright," he told her. "If a lovely woman does not fling something at me at least once a day, I count my time poorly spent." He followed her into the room, watching as she folded the discarded bits of dress and dropped them onto the seat of a chair. 

Lalaith surveyed the elf before her. He was tall and slender, like most elves, with pale hair and blue eyes, also like most elves. But those eyes were sparkling at her with a truly formidable amount of humour and mischief. She was usually greatly alarmed by men like that; she felt no differently with this elf. 

Last evening's meal with Elladan and Elrohir had been an exercise in discomfort for her, as they had spent the whole of the night laughing and joking and smiling, and expecting her to do likewise. Their disappointment in her was palpable, and she had been glad for the meal to end so she could escape to her room. Lalaith had no doubt she would disappoint this elf, as well, and turned sadly to the table. 

"I am Rûmil," he said, and she looked back at him. He held out his hand, and she placed hers in it. He brushed his lips over her skin, and Lalaith felt a shiver of heat travel from where his mouth had touched up her arm and down her spine. 

"I am Lalaith," she replied, then blushed at the breathless sound of her voice, knowing he had noticed. Embarrassed, she pulled her hand from his light grasp and turned back to the table. There was only the smallest tremor to that hand as it picked up the shears and parted a sleeve from the bodice. 

"Do you know where Haldir is?" Rûmil asked her after a moment. "I seek my brother, and was informed he is likely with Naurë, who I am told is your grandmother."

Lalaith looked up to find him watching her carefully, and she set the shears down before she could destroy the dress with her trembling. "She told me at breakfast that she would sit in Elrond's garden until lunch, and after that meal, would be working in his study with him." Oh, his eyes were so very blue, like forget-me-nots, and fixed so intently upon her… 

"If she has spent any time with Haldir, she is doubtless ready to drink a bottle of wine all by herself," Rûmil said, grinning, revealing even white teeth. 

Lalaith nodded. "Nana is always saying that he is the only elf that could drive her to drink."

Rûmil laughed. "Many is the time he has made Orophin and myself take to the bottle," he agreed.

"Orophin?"

"Our other brother, and the eldest."

"Are you the youngest?" Lalaith thought he looked younger than most other elves she'd seen.

"I am," he confirmed. "One of the youngest elves in Middle-Earth, actually. Only the Evenstar is younger than I."

Lalaith cocked her head to the side as a memory swam its way to the surface of her mind. "Nana told me once that she and Elrond were studying the fertility of elves," she mentioned, and cut the faded, ragged trim off the bodice of the blue gown. "It fascinated them how few and far apart elvish offspring are." She glanced up at Rûmil. "You have two brothers; Elrohir and Elladan have a sister. Families of three are rare in elves, and considered quite large, are they not?"

"Too large, if you are one of them," Rûmil replied. "I have ever longed to be my parents' only child." He sighed dramatically. "At least I can console myself with the knowledge that their first two sons were merely practice, and that they achieved perfection with their third attempt." 

She, of course, remained silent, merely watching him, and after a moment, his smile faltered. But there was no disappointment on his face. "You are a serious one," he said at last, and flicked a fingertip over her cheek, brushing an errant wisp of hair behind her ear. "No matter; I am silly enough for two." He held out his elbow. "I think Aerlinn has deserted you, fair one. Will you let me bring you in to lunch?"

Her belly chose then to voice its opinion, and grumbled noisily. She blushed again.

"Yes, indeed, sir stomach," Rûmil said, bending slightly to address Lalaith's midsection. "We attend to your needs right away."

"You **are** very silly," Lalaith informed him as they left the room, her hand tucked firmly into the crook of his arm. 

"It is the bane of my brothers' existence," he admitted. "But I consider it my duty, as they are both somber, responsible, and restrained at all times."

They continued chatting as they made their way to the feasting hall, unaware of three pairs of eyes watching their progress. Naurë's were speculative; Haldir's smug; Elrond's somewhat grumpy. 

"There you are, Lalaith!" exclaimed a feminine voice, and Aerlinn joined her friend and Rûmil at their part of the long table. "I am sorry I did not return, but—"

"I distracted her with my looks, wit, and charm," Elrohir said from behind the elf-maid, darting a kiss on the side of her neck before plopping himself onto the long bench. Aerlinn blushed faintly and sank down beside Lalaith. 

"Or what you think passes for looks, wit, and charm," Rûmil retorted. "I confess myself unaware you possessed any of these."

"But you are renowned for your obtuseness, cousin elf," Elladan said from across the table. "A balrog could roost on your head and you'd think it a fetching hat." He filled a plate with the choicest bits from the platters and handed it with a flourish to Lalaith, who nodded her thanks.

Rûmil only arched an elegant golden brow. "Tis only jealousy that makes you say such things," he replied with false hauteur. "You begrudge me my escort of this lovely maid to our meal."

Elladan heaved a dramatic sigh. "The child speaks the truth," he admitted. "I ache with envy that 'twas not my arm she had."

"Child?" Rûmil inquired, playing up his outrage. "I am over a thousand years old, Elladan; hardly am I a stripling."

"A mere babe," Elrohir declared with an elegant wave of his hand. "I am surprised Orophin and Haldir permit you to leave the nursery."

"Indeed," Elladan agreed. "They either have great confidence in your ability to keep yourself alive—which I doubt—or else they are supremely uncaring if you manage to get yourself killed. Knowing your brothers, I find this last infinitely more likely."

Rûmil heaved a great sigh and turned to Lalaith, who had been watching their banter with wide eyes. "Do you see, fair one, what a pitiable state one can be brought to? Their advanced years make them senile; their humour is weak and feeble, as are their intellects. Truly, it is a sad day." And he smiled angelically at her.

She blinked at him, quite unable to speak. "I think it is time for us to eat," she said finally, at a loss for anything else to say.

Elrohir, Elladan, Rûmil, and Aerlinn all laughed, to Lalaith's amazement. "She is a harsh taskmistress, is Lalaith," Rûmil said at last. "But we have been given our orders. It is time to eat!"

Across the hall, Naurë frowned into her goblet. She was well acquainted with the expression on her granddaughter's face; it was infatuation, pure and simple, and it was directed at Haldir's brother. He was very handsome, she would admit it. His hair was the pale-gold of finest ale, and his dark blue eyes brimmed with intelligence and good humour. Haldir and Orophin had raised him after their parents died, so she doubted not that he was a fine elf, strong and brave. 

But he was an elf, and that fact caused an ache in her heart for her granddaughter. Nothing good could come of a woman falling in love with an elf; she would age and wither, and he would remain hale and beautiful always. She would die, and he would sink into despair. 

"Why so grave, _meldisamin_?" Elrond asked from beside her. "If aught is to your displeasure, I will have the kitchen staff beaten."

Naurë tried not to laugh, but it was impossible. Elrond was known across middle-earth for his kindness as lord of Rivendell. "Yes," she said, surprising him. "Have them beaten; I would like to see this."

He slumped into his chair a little. "I hate when you call my bluff," he muttered grouchily.

She tossed a grape at him; it pinged off his forehead to land in his lap. "Then do not bluff with me."

He retrieved the grape and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "You did not answer. Why so grave?"

Naurë's gaze travelled across the hall to land on her granddaughter and the elves with whom she sat. "Lalaith has that look on her face," she said at last. "It worries me."

"What look is that?" Elrond studied Lalaith; the girl looked somewhat baffled by the swift repartee that flew around her, but that was not unusual. His sons were quite a handful even when it was just the two of them; paired with Rûmil, the three could be considerably daunting.

"The look of love," Naurë whispered, drawing her friend's attention back to her. 

"Love?" he asked, surprised. "Surely not. She has only known them a day…"

"Not for your handsome boys," she told him, a wry smile on her lips. "For Rûmil." 

And he looked again, and saw she was right. While Lalaith's eyes were bright and curious when fixed upon his sons, when they turned to Haldir's brother, they changed… a light came into them, a softness. Celebrian, Elrond's wife, had long been gone to Valinor, but still he could remember that same light in her eyes when she looked at him. 

"Can it be possible?" he said at last. "He only arrived this morning; she can't have known him more than an hour."

"That is all it needs, sometimes," Naurë replied, eyes locked on her granddaughter. She smiled then, a smile of such aching sadness that Elrond felt embarrassed, as if he were intruding on some private moment. "Just the one look."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: The poem I attribute herein is actually by Kahlil Gibran, because I suck at writing poetry, and he doesn't. 

The Fall of Night, Part 4

It was barely a month later when a message came from Gandalf, about something of grave importance. Elrond closeted himself in his study for a full day after it arrived, and only Naurë threatening to take an axe to the study door made him come out again, his face as haggard as an elf's face can become. Which is to say, not much. His hands were filled with sealed letters; these he thrust at his sons with the instructions to give them to messengers. 

"You will tell me what is amiss, else I will take a switch to you," Naurë promised grimly, and shut the study door behind her. 

It was not a moment before it opened again and Haldir entered, looking disgruntled. "I was right behind you," he said coolly. 

She didn't spare him a glance. "Well?" she prompted Elrond. 

"The ring has been found," Elrond said at last. "Gandalf and a host of others from middle-earth shall come here, so we can decide how it will destroyed."

"But only the fires of Mount Doom can destroy it," Haldir said, his voice low and uneasy. "This… this will mean a war."

"More than a war," Elrond told them. "A cataclysm."

"Do Celeborn and Galadriel know of it?" the march-warden of Lorien wanted to know. At Elrond's nod, he stood. "I must return to Caras Galadon. They will have need of me." He bowed to them both, and left the room. 

Elrond turned to Naurë. "What think you of this?"

"I am frightened," she admitted. "But…" Her words trailed off and she stared into the corner, lost in thought.

"But?"

"I have been working on a remedy," she told him, leaning forward, the enthusiasm on her face making her seem much younger. "A remedy that could be of much use to a fighting force."

The light of scientific discovery lit Elrond's eyes. "Tell me more," he encouraged. 

"It returns the body to a previous state," Naurë said slowly. "If a body is injured or ill, it… turns back the clock, as it were, to the previous day. The mind is untouched, the memories remain, but the body… is renewed. I have been working on it for the past decade, and almost have I perfected it. That is why I yet live—I should have died years ago, but for this tonic."

"And you have waited this long to tell me of it?" Elrond looked somewhat affronted. 

Naurë drew herself up to her full height of five feet even. "I wanted to be sure it was working, sir elf," she told him, the slightest bite to her tone. "As I know full well how happy would be your reaction if it were not."

He narrowed his eyes at her. Too well she knew him. "You say it is **almost** perfect. Why is it not?"

"It works to keep alive one such as myself, who is only old, but not injured. I do not know how effective it would be in healing one who was wounded; I do not think it has strength enough to undertake and repair a grievous injury. I yet lack one ingredient, or rather, the preparation of one ingredient."

"And that would be what?" Elrond leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Naurë had been the brightest of his human students; this remedy was a breathtaking application of her skills. If she could get it to work, what a culmination of a lifetime of healing it would be!

"The most important component is athela."

He snapped to attention. "Kingsfoil? Then the reason it is not complete is because…"

She nodded, knowing the conclusion he'd reached. "Because I have not been able to have a king bless the athelas I use in the recipe."

"And if you were to avail yourself of some king-blessed athelas?"

Now it was her turn to lean back in her chair and steeple her fingers. "Then I am fairly sure it could bring a Man back from the brink of death itself."

Elrond quirked an elegant brow. "You are that confident?"

"It is that strong," she corrected. "And I fear you underestimate the power of a king's blessing. This is no normal remedy; there is magic in it."

"Who else knows of it?" 

"But for you, just Lalaith and myself." Her canny gaze glinted in the fading sunlight. "I trusted no one else."

Naurë was just as suspicious now as she had been seventy years ago. Perhaps more so. It was a characteristic he shared and admired, and he found himself grinning. "Excellent." He stood in a smooth movement, holding out his hand to her. "You have full access to my workroom and any ingredients you need; produce for me a hogshead of this remedy and I shall produce for you a king."

She allowed him to tug her to her feet, staring at him. "You are not jesting."

His grin, if possible, became wider. "I am not."

She clapped her hands to his cheeks and pulled him down, planting a kiss full on his lips. "Then I shall begin, sir elf. And woe to he who disturbs me while I work." She left the room in her halting gait, calling already for Lalaith to join her. "And bring my satchel!"

Elrond returned to his seat, poring over a map of Middle-Earth even as he grinned, pleased at this development. Naurë had a project to occupy herself, and a reason to remain indefinitely at Rivendell; and this remedy of hers sounded promising as well. He had no doubt Aragorn would bless Naurë's athelas, and that would raise the Man's confidence in his own heritage and destiny. Oh, this was perfect, indeed. 

He only wished that it had not taken a war to accomplish it all.

*

Lalaith was very relieved when her grandmother require her free time that day. In the past month, as her familiarity with Rivendell and elves had increased so had her affection for Rûmil, to the point where it was almost painful to spend time with him. The sun's caress on his hair, the graceful movement of his limbs, the curve of his mouth when he smiled… all made her long to touch him, to hold him. Words of love were ever on her lips, ready and willing to wend their way to his pointed ears. 

He remained either unaware of her plight, or unconcerned, and gave no indication 

And so she stood before the polished oaken table in Elrond's workroom, measuring and pouring and stirring as per Naurë's direction, the shade of the room cool in contrast to the heat of summer just beyond the windows. The glass of the beakers and phials was smooth and familiar to her fingertips as she selected and exchanged one for another, and she realized she was humming.

So startled was she at this discovery that she clapped a hand to her throat, feeling the vibration against her skin, and turned in amazement to Naurë. "Nana!" she exclaimed. "Did you hear it?"

"I did indeed," Naurë said slowly. "Come, put down those things and sit by me; we must talk." Lalaith did as she was told, placing her hands in her grandmother's outstretched ones. "Lalaith, my child, my dearest one." Naurë's voice cracked a little; she cleared her throat and began again. "When we arrived here, I warned you about the lure of beauty. Have you heeded my words?"

Lalaith blinked. So Nana knew about her feelings for Rûmil… "You fear I am entranced by his looks."

Naurë grimaced. "You must admit, there is precedent… remember you that apprentice shipbuilder from Grey Havens? He was a handsome one. And that Dunedain… very rugged and manly, quite appealing. I'd have gone for him myself, were I seventy years younger…" She caught Lalaith's expression of censure and shrugged. "I am trying to tell you that I understand the weakness of the flesh, how a young woman can be susceptible."

"I am not as shallow as you seem to think me, Nana," Lalaith retorted, her voice trembling. "Rûmil would hold my heart were he as ugly as an orc."

"True love, indeed," Naurë murmured, mouth quirking with fleeting humour. "Tell me why, Lalaith. Tell me what about Rûmil makes you love him."

"He is strong, and brave, and graceful, and elegant," Lalaith began, her face dreamy as she recalled. "He sings and dances beautifully, and is so smart. He writes poetry, did you know?" Naurë opened her mouth to reply, but Lalaith rushed on. "And lovely poetry it is, too. Would you like to hear some?" Again, she did not wait for her grandmother's answer. 

_Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn_

_That it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower,   
But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.   
For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life,   
And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love,   
And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving_

_Of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy._

"Only once did I have to hear that, to remember it," Lalaith said breathlessly when she was done reciting, and sat beside her grandmother again, taking up her gnarled hands once more. "Is it not magical?"

"It is," Naurë agreed. "But no more so than any other Elven poetry I have heard. And, in truth, naught you have said marks Rûmil as superior to any other. Elrohir and Elladan are just as you have said; so are Elrond and Haldir. So are any number of elves. Can you not think of something specifically that makes him worthy of your love?"

 "I… it is not something I am used to expressing!" cried the young woman, agitated. "I do not know how!"

"You must learn, then," Naurë told her gently. "For this is no minor matter. You play not just with your own heart, but with another's, and his life as well. You must consider what future you may create together. If you do not, this love of yours is naught but a whim."

"I am trying, Nana!" protested Lalaith. "I am trying!"

Naurë bowed her head over their clasped hands. "And I am trying to tell you how empty that sort of love can be, how it will leave you hollow. And, dear Lalaith, he is an elf. An elf can die of sorrow. You must take great care." She paused, feeling very old and very, very tired, and sighed. "Surely you realize naught can come of it with him?"

Lalaith pulled her hands from her grandmother's and clasped them in her lap. Staring down at them, she whispered, "But Arwen… Aerlinn tells me that Elrond's daughter chooses to live a mortal life to be with her love, a Man." She looked up, eyes huge and bright with unshed tears. "Is it not possible that Rûmil might someday love me enough to do the same?"

Naurë felt her own eyes fill. "My child," she said, voice raspier than usual. "Arwen and her love are not for you to compare yourself to… they have a destiny, an important fate for Middle-Earth. And Arwen is half-Elven; she is given the choice to keep or abandon her immortality. Only a half-Elf can do so." She watched the tenuous hope fade from her granddaughter's face. "Rûmil is all-Elven. There is no choice for him."

Lalaith stood and paced slowly around the workroom, tweaking and tidying as she went to have something to do with her hands.

"Child, consider Rûmil in this as well," Naurë entreated. "If he loves you, your death from age or infirmity will destroy him. He is a fine elf, a handsome, brave elf. Would you condemn him to a lingering demise, despairing his separation from you? For that is the fate you would doom him to, if you insist on pursuing a love with him."

"I thought you said he was no more special than any other," Lalaith replied bitterly, wiping shreds of herbs from the surface of the worktable. "Why do you care about his doom?"

Naurë's eyes narrowed; if Lalaith had been watching her grandmother, she'd have seen that woman's ire. "You will **not** distort my words, child," Naurë snapped. "I want you to examine your feelings for Rûmil, to be sure it is love, not infatuation or mere lust if you are intent on this destructive path. If you will risk all, then you had best be damned well sure it is for more than a jolly tumble!" 

She stood shakily, leaning heavily on her cane as she glared at her granddaughter. "Think you I know nothing of hopelessness, of loneliness?" She stared down at the smooth, polished stone floor, blinking tears away furiously. "I know more of doomed love than you might think, child. There is more coming than you realize, bloodshed and war and death. It is a bad time for two to become one. You must be sure that your love is worth the havoc it could wreak." 

She turned to leave, but paused in the doorway, speaking over her shoulder. "Why is it that Rûmil alone makes your soul sing? Why none but him should be your mate? Why he could not be replaced, not with a thousand others? When you know this, you will know love." Naurë sighed. "But not before, not truly."

Lalaith sat in Elrond's workroom a long time after her grandmother left, long after the sun cast shadows on the floor and the sky deepened to dusk, and still she did not leave. Only Elrond himself was able to bestir her from the place, as she was too ashamed to admit to the scolding she had received from her grandmother, and so had to insist that aught was wrong. He sent her on her way to the evening meal, engrossed in his own cares, and but fleetingly aware that her eyes, usually so clear, were shadowed; and that her face, usually so open, was drawn.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note:

You've probably noticed I changed the name of this fic. I did it because the name didn't really reflect the story as a whole, and also because I was thinking about it and got a whole new story idea that **would** be thoroughly entwined with the concept of 'beautiful'. 

The new title, The Fall of Night, is both symbolic and metaphorical, and might possibly become clear to you by the end. If not, I can explain it. I know I have a tendency to be obscure (not to mention easily amused). My nickname's not 'Arcane' for nothing.

On another note, I feel I am helpless against the urge to recommend this fic: To Hesitate, by gelfling. It is found here and is, quite possibly, the best goddamned thing I've read in centuries. It's slash, which usually gives me the wiggins in a huge way, but this is so good I can't possibly be bothered with my squeamishness. Chapter 11 is quite lemony, so if you can't stomach that sort of thing, skip it—it doesn't really affect the overall story. Read it, and be amazed at the knots in your belly at the UST. Be thrilled at the depth of the emotion. Be stunned at the brilliance of the characterization. Be aroused at the honest, genuinely portrayed sexuality and attraction and love.

The Fall of Night, Part 5

The courtyard was a-bustle with activity, for Haldir was not the only one returning home on the morrow. The sun was on the wane in the sky, and the coolness of early evening was upon them. If she was not mistaken, there would be rain that night—she could smell it in the air. Naurë tucked her woolly shawl more tightly around narrow shoulders, and took her time crossing the courtyard; she was in no hurry to see anyone. 

She was angry with Lalaith, yes, but more sympathetic to her granddaughter's plight than perhaps the girl realized. For Naurë, too, had loved not wisely, but too well, so many years ago… her heart still ached for what could not be, what could never be, and tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away.

 "I am a foolish old woman," she muttered impatiently to herself, treading carefully on the rough cobblestones. "Tis my own fault it pains me still. I was stupid to love him in the first place, stupider still to never put it away from me and leave it where it belongs, in the past."

"If you ever succeed in talking yourself out of love, Naurë, I would be most grateful if you would tell me how," said a deep voice from behind her, and she stopped, waiting for Haldir to come around to face her. "For it seems to me a wound that never closes, eternally bleeding." His eyes were soft, concerned, and she found herself unaccountably irritated. 

With a deep breath, she forced it away. "You leave at dawn?"

He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, leading her out of the courtyard. "I do," he confirmed. "Shall Rûmil be accompanying me?" Naurë knew what he was asking; he had seen, as always, her upset and wondered if she wanted to drive apart her granddaughter and his brother.

"No," she said at last. "I have warned her; there is naught else I can do. Perhaps she will know some way to succeed where I failed." 

Haldir stopped in the middle of the path to look down at her. "Never have I known you to be bitter, Naurë," he said, ignoring those who huffed in displeasure at having their way blocked by a tall elf and short, elderly woman. "It worries me, to see you in despair."

An unpleasant smile twitched her lips. "I have learned many things since last we saw each other," she replied. "Bitterness and despair are but two of them." She sighed then. "Forgive me, friend. I am maudlin today, and would not spoil our last evening with my harshness."

"I would know what bothers you, so I can fix it," Haldir persisted, and she smiled in spite of her sour mood. He would gag in horror to know how sweet she found his concern, as he flattered himself the most stony and aloof of warriors. 

"You cannot fix everything," she told him, patting his arm. "But I thank you for your care."

He gave up; when Naurë did not want to discuss something, it would remain undiscussed. "And to where did you disappear this afternoon?"

"Elrond's workshop. Lalaith and I created a gallon of a new remedy I am close to perfecting."

He arched a silver-gilt brow in interest. "What does it do?"

"Until I have the final ingredient, no more than rejuvenate an already-healthy body." She eyed him with speculation. "I have not yet tried it on an elf."

"Hm," he said blandly, not meeting her keen gaze. "And where might you find an elf so kindly disposed as to become your test subject?"

"I wonder," Naurë replied wryly. "Know you any?"

"Indeed not," Haldir told her. "Kindly disposed elves and I do not get on; I keep them as far from me as possible."

Now it was her turn for a noncommittal 'hm'. "If you happen across such an elf, give him this." She withdrew a stoppered phial from a pocket and handed it to him. "Three drops in water each day would greatly refresh him, were he weary."

Haldir smirked and accepted it, making it disappear up his sleeve before pressing a kiss of gratitude upon her fingers. "Come," he directed. "Let us make merry this night, and give me something to remember fondly as I take the boring journey home."

 "Boring?" Naurë snorted skeptically as they entered the feasting hall. "I doubt it will be anything less than exciting. Long have I wanted to visit Lorien, but never have I been able." She sat and tugged him to seat himself in Elrond's chair beside her. "I do not expect I shall have time to get there, now."

"I am sure you will live forever, Naurë," Haldir replied, humour behind his solemn expression. 

"No one lives forever," she replied with a sad smile before looking up at his profile silhouetted in the waning light of the day, her gaze sharp. "You will be careful, as you travel?"

He tilted his head and quirked a brow. "Am I ever anything but careful?"

Naurë smirked. "There was that time with the dwarves…"

Haldir frowned fiercely. "You said you would not mention that." He glanced around with the faintest hint of unease. Elrond was approaching, looking slightly put out that his seat was taken, and the march-warden stood. Her smirk grew, and she did not answer. How she loved to make the haughty march-warden nervous! He narrowed his cerulean eyes at her before stomping—in a most genteel and elfin way, of course—over to his own seat. 

Elrond's smile was a little weary around the edges, but genuine enough. "And what was that?"

"That was Haldir having a pout," Naurë replied with a laugh, taking up his plate. "Allow me to feed you for once, sir elf," she said when he protested, and filled it for him. It was slow going, and not for the first time she muttered an oath of impatience for her old age. 

Elrond made no comment, merely watched her with a faint smile, and thanked her warmly when his plate was filled. They ate in companionable silence until Elrohir approached them.

"Father, Naurë," he greeted them, bowing gracefully, his dark hair sweeping down over his shoulders. Even Naurë's elderly hearing could detect the feminine sighs of approval, and she grinned. If Elrohir were anything like his sire, he knew perfectly well what he was doing, and just as steadfastly was ignoring it. _Lot of mad elves_, she thought affectionately, and turned her face up to attend him.

"The meal is nearly over, and Lalaith has missed it," Elrohir said. "We—" he indicated his twin, Aerlinn, and Rûmil, "—had wondered if aught were wrong."

Naurë's gaze flicked over to that part of the long table'; just as Elrohir said, there was an empty spot beside Aerlinn. Elrond's keen gaze flicked over his friend's countenance, and saw she did not want to speak in front of his son. 

"Our thanks," he told Elrohir, who bowed once more and returned to his meal. Then he turned to Naurë. "Will you tell me what is wrong? For I found Lalaith earlier today in my workroom, looking poorly."

Naurë began to tear a piece of bread into small pieces. "She thinks herself in love with Rûmil, in spite of all my warnings. No," she said, waving at him when he would speak, "I know that the young cannot be **told**, that they must **do**, to learn their lessons. But that does not make it easier to sit idly and watch them make ruinous mistakes." Disgusted, she tossed the last bit of bread down onto her plate, frowning. 

"Would it be ruinous, indeed?" Elrond asked quietly. "Look you at Rûmil." Naurë did as he instructed; Haldir's brother was not joining in the laughter of the others, but kept glancing toward Lalaith's empty seat, his handsome face contemplative. "Does that look like an elf whose heart remains untouched?" As they watched, he stood, made excuses to the others, and left swiftly, purpose written on his face and in every stride. "Even now, he goes to search for her."

"Argh," Naurë said in loud, heartfelt tones of exasperation, and put her head in her hands. "My old head throbs. This was easier when I thought he would not return her affections." Others were watching; she cared not. "There are times I am glad my days are few."

The flat of Elrond's hand came down hard on the table, making the plates and goblets rattle. Naurë looked up at him, shock written across her lined face. He was well and truly furious, was Elrond; his grey eyes glacial with anger and for the first time in a long time, she felt herself shrinking against the back of her chair. She was dimly aware of Haldir standing, concerned. "I will not hear those words from you again," he told her, his voice low and imperious. In this moment, he was every inch the lord of Rivendell and one of the most powerful beings on Middle-Earth.

Naurë felt deep shame at burdening him with her problems, when he had so much more serious matters to attend to. "You have my apologies, sir elf," she said at last, covering his hand with her own. "Your mind is uneasy with thoughts of war and evil; I would not encumber you further."

Elrond sighed deeply, and turned his hand over to grasp hers. "Naurë, _meldisamin_. My friend, my sister. You are not to feel your troubles burden me, for that is not the case. I am merely tired." He squeezed her hand once more, and stood. "I will retire now." And he strode from the room, looking neither left nor right.

"Forgive his harsh words, Naurë," urged a deep voice, and Haldir slipped into Elrond's abandoned chair. "He does not want to think of such unpleasantness as your death."

She smiled sadly at him. "But I no longer view it as unpleasant, Haldir. It seems to me a comfort, like going to bed after a long day. My life has been a good one, but wearying. I am ready to sleep now." 

His face was impassive, as usual, but his eyes shimmered with emotion. "We—elves—cannot think of death as anything but an enemy, Naurë," he said at last. "We accept it as a consequence of battle, but you must realize that we simply aren't equipped to regard it with anything but horror."

"I know that, Haldir," she replied. "But I cannot lie to you or Elrond. You are my oldest and dearest friends. I will not pretend I am overjoyed to linger as I do." She lifted a crabbed hand to touch a lock of his hair, bright as starlight, that lay over his shoulder. "Elves should not have to endure such ugliness as an untruth. Not from one who loves them." Naurë sighed. "I am tired, and would not keep you from the dancing."

He gazed intently at her a moment longer. Then, "I will not dance tonight."

She allowed a sly smile to flit across her wrinkled lips. "Worried you will not have the strength to begin your journey tomorrow, if you exert yourself tonight?"

"I have untapped stores of stamina, as well you know, you evil woman," Haldir replied, standing and pulling her to her feet. 

"Ha!" she scoffed, allowing him to lead her from the hall. "You were only able to outlast me when we travelled together because of my advanced age, then as now. But had you known me when I was Lalaith's age… there were none who could continue further than I."

"The way you boast, one might think you part dwarven," Haldir drawled, peering skyward at the canopy of stars above them. "And no surprise is it, either, when I recall how that one dwarf was determined to have you to wife…"

"Only because you refused him!" Naurë shot back. "How sad he was to learn you were male!" She began laughing. "Oh, fair maid," she said, lowering her voice to approximate the deep timbre of the unfortunate dwarf she mocked. "Your beauty surpasses that of the moon! Its pallid gleam serves only to highlight your own splendor!"

"Cease your prattling," he growled.

"But, fair maid!" she continued. "Your form is so fine, so tall and sturdy! Many bushels of gems could you pull from the earth with those strong hands, many barrels of gold could you mine with those strapping, burly arms and shoulders! Many strong sons could you bear! Be mine, else I perish from thwarted longing!"

"Ai, Valar," Haldir sighed, and gave in to his laughter, for it was impossible to remain serious at the memory of the lovesick dwarf who'd pursued him so ardently. "How did you manage to convince him I was no female?"

Naurë looked off into the distance, avoiding his eyes. "I do not think you really want to know, Haldir," she said at last, biting her lip to keep from bursting into laughter once more.

"Oh, yes I do," he assured her, his tone intent and very, very serious. "Your reaction has made me worry, and you know how I dislike worrying."

"Do you promise not to kill me?" she said, making her voice quaver most pathetically. "You would not strike an old lady?"

"I would never strike an old lady, and well you know it," he snapped. "You, however, I would beat to within an inch of life, do you continue to vex me." 

She only smirked at him, knowing full well he would never lift a hand to her. "Well, if you insist on knowing…"

"I do." His tone brooked no argument.

"I… er… brought him to the glade where you would bathe," she said at last, eyeing him warily for reaction. "At first he refused to believe it, saying only that you were a fine, strong she-elf, and he cared not that you had no bosom to speak of." She could feel him stiffen beside her, his arm growing tense beneath her hand, and she rushed to continue. "I made him wait until you left the water, and he could see that you had a pintle."

Haldir stopped dead, and slowly turned to face her. "Do you tell me that you helped a lovesick dwarf spy on me as I bathed?"

She nodded. "He was quite enamoured of you still, until the end of the bath, and then there was just… horror."

He looked aghast to have been the lust-object of an amorous dwarf. "And… he saw _everything_?" His voice was faint.

"Well, it was the only way to make him give up his suit of you," Naurë told him reasonably. "Can you think of another way? You remember how persistent he was. If I had not, he would likely still be camped on the outskirts of Lorien, composing sonnets about the length of your eyelashes." She smiled at the memory. "If I recall correctly, that was the best of his efforts. The song he sang in celebration of your childbearing hips… ah, that was terrible. Didn't rhyme at all."

"Ai, Valar," he repeated, covering his eyes with his hand. "I will never rouse again, knowing this."

"You, Haldir of Lorien, march-warden and guardian?" Naurë burst into laughter. "I have married, I have borne children. I know the ways of men and elves, and I know a lusty one when I see him." She grinned naughtily at him. "You would not last long in a vow of celibacy."

They arrived at the door to her chamber, and he seemed quite glad to open the door and usher her within. "Never did I think to feel such relief to see the back of you," he told her with heartfelt sentiment. 

"You will miss me," she retorted, her head tilted far back to meet him eye-to-eye, and then her gaze softened. "As I will miss you."

Haldir smiled then, his sweet smile that he reserved only for his brothers and his select few friends. "You have the right of it, again." He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingers. "I will not see you tomorrow, as I leave before dawn."

"You will be careful, and arrive safely," she informed him imperiously. "If you do not, I will put you over my knee as I used to do to Lalaith."

He quirked a brow. "Ever have you been promising that, Naurë," he purred. "Do not be a tease."

She threw back her head and laughed, the raspy sound echoing in the room. "Be you gone! For you are a rogue, and doubtless will corrupt me."

"I have been trying for thirty years, and still do you elude corruption," he replied, and shut the door behind him after winking lecherously at her.

And Naurë smiled all the way through her toilette, through her undressing, and even as she lay in bed staring out the window at the moon and stars, praying to Eru for her friend's safety.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note:

Just wanted to thank all of you lovely people for reading, and the even-lovelier of you who send me reviews. 

If I might impose upon you for more opinions, please take a gander at the rest of my oeuvre. For your reading pleasure, I've got:

* The Gift of Death, a BTVS/LOTR crossover that many have declared quite acceptable. I rather like it myself. 

* if you're into the vague and  weird, as I am, there's a fever-dream type of supernatural thingy: _Picture_ has Boromir and Legolas in it

* a dramatic vignette, L'Heure Bleu has Spike (I love sensitive, tortured blonds) knockin' boots with… someone.

And in the HP realm, some experimentation with angsty-porn and OC's that I have tried desperately to keep from being Mary Sues:

* Lonely Reign in particular is said to be pretty damned funny. A favourite line: "Begone, biscuit-temptress!"

* If you're feeling just this shade of suicidal, give Love Lies Bleeding a go—guaranteed to make you realize that perhaps you aren't as messed up as you think you are. Smut ahoy, and chapter 3 has f/f slash. Furthers the plot, dontcha know.

The Fall of Night, Part 6

There were many things Lalaith hated. She hated how her hair would frizz up when it rained, and hated when she broke a nail. She hated when drunken men would paw at her, and that brave men had to die in battle. She hated the bad taste of certain remedies, and hated that she needed them in the first place, when she was ill. She hated knowing that Naurë would die someday, and that she was powerless to stop it. She hated that her mother had left them so long ago, and hated that her father was dead. 

But most of all, she hated when Naurë was right. 

It galled her like nothing else. Stupid, yes, and selfish, but Lalaith was nothing if not honest, and she knew herself to be nothing near an altruist. Whence came this pride? This competition? There was no logic to it, after all, as it was very simple indeed: Naurë was near a century of age, had studied with elves, and travelled far and wide. Lalaith had scarcely been out of Bree; this trip to Rivendell was the furthest she'd been from the city in the entirety of her life, and the longest. Of **course** Nana would be experienced, wise, sage. 

That did not make it easier to endure. 

Lalaith allowed herself to continue her nice sulk for a short while after Elrond evicted her from his workroom, plopping herself onto a stone bench beside the river. From her seat, she could observe elves from all over the Last Homely Home making their way to the feasting hall. She stared blindly at the waterfall, watching without interest the refraction of light in the mist thrown up from the water.

Naurë was right, and Lalaith wanted to scream.

Rûmil was a fine elf, but indeed, there was nothing about him that was any better than any other elf. He had a sunny nature, it was true, and Lalaith had it on excellent authority that Rûmil was amusing, but sunny nature and another quality that she was incapable of appreciating personally were no basis for lasting love.

Dammit. And she'd thought it so terribly romantic, falling in love upon first sight of him.

She sighed, a harsh sound that broke the silence around her. Naurë had always said her granddaughter was more dramatic than practical, and it would appear that on that matter as well, she was correct.

Double dammit. 

Lalaith knew she should follow the others in to supper, but didn't want to see her grandmother, or Rûmil, or those silly twins, or even Aerlinn. Sometimes it felt like their laughter and smiles marked them as members of an exclusive club, and she held not the key to enter. It was most wearying, and made her feel stupid and defective. Defective she might be, but stupid, never. 

Naurë had always declared her granddaughter brilliant, quite the smartest human she'd ever met, and Lalaith was quite pleased to agree with her Nana for once. With her intelligence came a certain amount of arrogance, of course, and ever was she battling with herself to curb it. 

She sighed again. This was not a moment of arrogance; just the opposite. It was a moment of beratement, of self-loathing. Another thing to add to her list of things she hated: her own pride. Lalaith tucked a foot under her and continued to think her thoughts.

*

Rûmil wondered why he sought the woman, even as he did so. Upon first meeting her, he'd felt profound pity for her solemnity, and his love of challenge spurred him to spend time with her, endeavoring always to bring a smile to her pretty lips. So far, he'd had no success whatsoever, and he was at quite a loss for what to do. 

"It is a thankless task, Rûmil," Elladan had advised him gravely, humour sparkling in his grey eyes. "She is a decent sort, to be sure, intelligent and lovely, but hopelessly staid. Elrohir and I have pledged ourselves to getting a laugh out of her, but…" The dark elf shrugged eloquently. "I cannot say we feel much optimism."

Why, then, his determination to make her laugh? For she was not unusually attractive, or smart, or talented. In fact, she had a huge strike against her: she was human. Mortal. From Bree, for Elbereth's sake, the dingiest and most backwards of cities in Middle-Earth. Might as well have been half-orc.

Perhaps it was the irony of her name; Lalaith meant "laughter" in Sindarin. Perhaps it was the challenge of the thing; Rûmil had never been one to back down from a challenge. Orophin said it was 'pig-headed', while Haldir merely called him 'stupid'. Rûmil, a devoté of the art of semantics, preferred to think of it as 'tenacious'. 

Perhaps it had been the way Haldir had threatened him with the beating of a lifetime if he hurt Naurë's granddaughter; when warned away so strongly, who could resist the temptation? Only a stronger elf than he, Rûmil was sure. In any case, his urge to make Lalaith more closely resemble her name was irresistible, and thus his trek around the gardens in search of her. 

When he found her, he stood at the opposite end of the garden for a while, merely watching. He must have made some sound or movement, because of a sudden, Lalaith stiffened and then turned to face him, squinting through the almost-night. "If you're going to stare, you might as well come sit and be comfortable while you do it," she told him crossly, then resumed her staring out over the water.

Rûmil arched a golden brow as he approached; open hostility was rare even between elves who loathed each other, and her voice had been clearly hostile. Once again, he reminded himself he was with a human, not an elf. "You are well?" he inquired. "We missed you at dinner."

"Somehow, I doubt that," she replied, ignoring his question. "I will thank you not to lie to me."

"I was not lying," he said tightly, feeling his temper begin to slip. "We did indeed miss you, and wondered if aught were wrong."

She shot a glare at him and he noticed for the first time that her eyes were green, an unusual colour for those of Man who lived west of the mountains. Rûmil had always thought green a soothing colour, cool and fresh, but her eyes were none of those. They were fierce and angry and, he realized, making him long to shout at her for her brazen rudeness.

Not that he ever would, of course. 

"You are well?" he repeated, striving for a neutral tone. Of course, neutral tones are difficult to accomplish when one's jaw was clenched, and those green eyes narrowed at him. 

"As can be expected," she answered him in clipped tones. "I would not keep you from the remainder of your meal, and the dancing." It was clearly a dismissal.

But Rûmil was not the brother of the two haughtiest elves in Lorien for nothing. And there was the matter of his tenacity, as well. He settled more comfortably on the stone seat and crossed his arms over his chest, looking for all the world like he was content to sit there the rest of his considerable lifespan.

Lalaith sighed noisily. Rûmil smirked. She huffed. He smirked more. Finally she turned to face him, hands disappearing in the folds of her sapphire-blue skirts, leveling a frown on him that had doubtless sent many a human scurrying off. "Will you not leave me alone?" she growled. "I wish for solitude."

"You wish to sulk," he said amiably, very nearly suppressing a quiver of amusement when her eyes flew wide in outrage. 

"Go away, or I will hit you," she hissed. 

"Ah, violence," Rûmil said with a sage nod. "Haldir has told me of the constant threats Naurë makes on his life. I am not surprised you would be as bloodthirsty as she." Oh, she was angry now. Bright colour appeared in her cheeks, contrasting nicely with her dark-chestnut hair, and her eyes were fairly blazing with fury. She looked much prettier, he noted.

And then one of her hands was flying at his face. With languid warrior's grace and speed, he intercepted it effortlessly, his long fingers ringing her wrist tightly enough to restrain, loosely enough not to hurt. "Do you truly think yourself up to the task of defeating me in combat, Lalaith?" he asked, his tone just condescending enough to make her breath come faster in her rage. His use of her given name instead of the more polite 'my lady' had not gone unnoticed, either.

"No," she said between gritted teeth, "But I thought it worth the effort to try." She yanked on her arm, but his grip was unbreakable. Lalaith tried to peel his fingers from her wrist with her free hand, to no avail. "I will scream if you do not release me," she warned. 

Rûmil shrugged, the motion graceful. "As you will. All it will accomplish is to make the others think I am ravishing you." He tilted his head consideringly. "Which is an option. You have only to suggest it, and I would be most pleased to comply."

Lalaith stared at him a long moment, eyes wide in horror. "I cannot believe I hummed at the thought of you," she said, obviously scandalized at her own lapse in judgment.

He perked up. "Indeed? My lady, you honour me." And lightning-quick, he shifted his grip from her wrist to her hand, bowing low over it to brush a kiss on her fingers. 

She snatched her hand back, inspecting it closely for visible signs of… something, and muttered, "**You** repel me."

"Really?" Rûmil seemed not at all bothered by this declaration; more fascinated, really. "Never has a female said that to me." She looked skeptical. He slid a glance her way. "Usually they were too busy crying my name in ecstasy."

"Bleh," was her reply, and she grimaced. "To think I found you attractive."

"Tis understandable," Rûmil told her complacently. "I am very handsome, and you but a mortal woman. It is no mystery you would want me."

"You are horrible," Lalaith whispered, and to her horror, she felt tears start in her eyes. She shot to her feet. "Do not follow me," she warned when he rose as well. "I swear, I will kill you if you do." And there was something deadly in her voice that convinced him that she at least meant to try, so he stood there, half amused, half shocked, as she ran away from him.

Haldir was just leaving her grandmother when Lalaith came into the corridor; he tried to speak to her, but she dashed by him and darted into her room, shutting it none too gently and throwing herself across the bed. She buried her face in her arms, ignoring his gentle knock on the door, and though she tried to block it out, the sound of Nana's voice echoed in her head.

_"Beautiful is empty, Lalaith. Beautiful loves no one, it will strip you until regret is all that is left. Be you careful."_

The tentative love she'd harbored in her breast for Rûmil had been cruelly destroyed, like a tender shoot of a plant reaching toward the sun, only to die and wither from neglect and cold. Lalaith did indeed feel stripped, raw and bare, naked but for a girdle of regret squeezing round her, leaving her breathless with disappointment and pain.

And Naurë had been right. Lalaith had succumbed to her affinity for beauty, had allowed Rûmil's beauty to blind and distract her from the reality of his being. She was worse than an idiot; she was a fool. An intelligent woman who had disregarded wise advice, had embraced an obviously poor choice, and now suffered the consequences. 

"Stupid elves," she whispered to the darkness. "I wish we had never come here." Lalaith longed for her own race, longed for the familiar faces of the people of Bree and the surrounding countryside. She even longed for the Hobbits who sometimes travelled to the city, to see their cheery faces and silly weed-pipes and ludicrous expectations of seven meals a day. "If I ever see another pointy ear, it will be an age too soon."

Lalaith rolled to her side and gazed out the window. In the moonlight, the dainty filigree adorning the arches and gables of Rivendell looked like long, slender fingers caressing the sides of the buildings with the intimacy of a lover. Here, everything was clean and lovely and perfect, and so utterly, completely alien that she felt like an intruder, unworthy and unwanted.

She thought that she might kiss the dirty, offal-streaked streets of Bree when next she returned to that place, her home. It might be smelly, and ugly, but it was familiar. It was home, and she was welcome there. There were no friends for her in this elf-city on the river, only Nana.

Lalaith closed her eyes, still hugging the pillow tight, and said a prayer of thanks for her grandmother. They had had harsh words earlier, but had done before as well. All would be right in the morning; there would be forgiveness and a kiss waiting for her at breakfast. As she fell asleep, her lips formed two last words.

"Stupid elves."


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: I would like to take this opportunity to salaam to my muse (whom I call Spike in honour of my favourite vamp). Spike  grabbed me by the short n' curlies and made me his bitch-- I've just spent the past seven hours writing out a storyline to The Fall of Night that goes in a significantly different direction from Chapter 6 than I'd originally planned, and is way, way better. Perhaps it's due to the copious quantities of Dove chocolate I've been stuffing in my yap all day, or maybe we should thank all the Hawaiian music I've been listening to lately. Whatever it is, it makes Spike very, very inspirational, which makes me type a lot. I think we can expect at least a chapter a day for the next two weeks or so. Perhaps more if I'm especially manic. 

To aidenfire: Thank you for mentioning the half-elven thing! An excellent point. I guess I should have made it clear(er) that because her father is half-elven, she (as well as Elrohir and Elladan) have inherited the legacy of being able to choose either an elfin or human lifespan. Hope that doesn't sound too silly or cheesy. It's not a huge point in the story, anyhoo, so I don't think it matters if I've buggered it up. Glad you like Rûmil, I hope you enjoy what I'll be doing to him in following chapters…

Thanks to all who review, generous scoops of dulce di leche ice cream to you all!

The Fall of Night, Part 7

Four Months Later 

Naurë sat on the balcony outside her chamber, enjoying the warmth of the mid-autumn sun on her face. Since Haldir had left, her stamina was greatly depleted, and she left her room now only for the evening meal, leaning heavily on the arm of Elrond or Rûmil, who she seemed to greatly favour now that his brother was returned to his beloved Golden Wood. Her other meals were served to her in private, usually on the balcony, and most of Elrond's workroom had been relocated to Naurë's chamber as well, so she could continue her work in comfort. 

She had taken to being outside at every opportunity, soaking up the sunlight and moonlight, the shine of the stars, even the damp air when it rained, even though it made her joints ache fiercely. The elves knew she was trying to experience as much of the beauty of nature as she could before having to take to her bed one last time, but Lalaith was determinedly ignoring the obvious.

"It is so lovely here!" the young woman would babble, plumping up pillows behind her grandmother's back and fetching another shawl for her withered legs. "There is a view of the bridge, of the waterfall, of the mountains to the east! Truly, a bird's eye view of the whole valley. Just lovely!" She succeeded in fooling only herself; even Naurë's smile was patient and understanding of Lalaith's self-deception.

It worried her that her granddaughter was not more at home in Rivendell. Since Haldir's departure, Lalaith had seemed to avoid Rûmil as one would any of your smellier orcs, and her interactions with Elrohir and Elladan were courteous but strained, as she had no comprehension of humour and they had little comprehension of anything else. Perhaps it was just the Imladris elves that gave the girl trouble, Naurë considered. Each tribe of elf had its own society, after all-- perhaps those of Lorien would be more to Lalaith's liking. Or Mirkwood…though she doubted that Thranduil would be willing to take in a young human female. The haughty king of Greenwood the Great had not thought much of her the single time they had met, and for good reason, as she recalled…

Ah, but there have been some good times, Naurë thought, and smiled as she tilted her head back, eyes closing in pleasure as the scent of fallen leaves wafted up from the forest floor. Her childhood years had not been easy, with more lean times than fat, but still had she survived and thrived, by sheer determination, if naught else.

It was quite by accident she had met Elrond Peredhil of Rivendell; he was escorting some of his people to the Grey Havens for their journey to Valinor, and of course his skill as a healer was known across the length and breadth of Middle-Earth. A budding healer herself, and possessed of singular ambition and cunning in her youth, she finagled an audience with the esteemed elf and persuaded him to consider her for his apprentice.

Elrond had been far from impressed by the woman who was too young, too poor, and too ignorant to make a decent healer, he thought; that he'd refrained from having her removed from his presence was a testament to his kindness and patience, indeed. But Naurë was nothing if not stubborn, and daily returned to him, asking him to please take her as student.

In spite of himself, Elrond was impressed by her dignity in the face of her poverty, and promised he would, if she would come to him in Rivendell in six months' time, and looking as befitted a proper elf. He had thought that would be the end of it; there was no way she could afford even the journey, let alone the clothing required of the task.

And yet she had. 

Six months to the day of his decree to her, she arrived at the Last Homely Home upon a palfrey of coal-black. Her gown of finest azure silk draped becomingly over her nickel-trimmed sidesaddle, and the elven attendants following her, managing her luggage, paid her obsequious deference. When she alighted from her mount, her grace and elegance were positively… elfin.

Elrond's suspicion was not overcome by his interest in the determined woman, but a promise was a promise. She became his first (and, he hoped, only) human apprentice, and within a few years, his friend. In spite of his almost daily pleadings to reveal her methods, she had never told him how she'd managed the horse, the rich gown, the servants. Naurë grinned evilly… nor would she, ever. Let him wonder. 

Her studies with him were the reason she married so late, at the age of thirty-one; her yearly stays at Rivendell to continue them were why her children were born when she was thirty-five, thirty-seven, and forty. He had shocked many in Bree when he came to that city upon learning that Naurë was not carrying her last child with ease, and birthed the stillborn infant with his own hands. 

None who witnessed his tender care of the grieving mother were shocked, however, when it was in his arms instead of her husband's that she cried. Hû was not known for his gentleness, after all. Nor for his fidelity. Hû had died when Naurë was but forty-three, and though some thought it scandalous that she would so cheerfully bury him, others wondered if perhaps one of her more notorious remedies had been the cause of his passing, and did not blame her if it were so. 

Naurë chuckled at the memory, the sound weak even to her own ears. She had not killed her husband, though not for lack of desire. Still, she enjoyed the speculative glances she got whenever the matter was brought up in hushed whispers. It never hurt to be thought dangerous.

It had not been easy to raise her son and daughter alone, but thanks to Elrond, they had never gone hungry or cold as Naurë had in her own childhood. She knew her mentor thought himself uncommonly sneaky, with his anonymous gifts left outside her door, but she knew the truth. She would not shame him by mentioning it—if he'd wanted her thanks, he would have presented the food, clothing, and supplies openly and publicly. 

It was after her children were adults and married, in their own homes, that Naurë had been able to truly enjoy herself. Free for the first time in many years, she had returned to Rivendell for more studying. Elrond had suggested they take the summer to journey to Rhûn, far to the east of even Mirkwood, and eager for some adventure in spite of her advancing years, she had agreed. 

One of their companions on the trip would be one Haldir of Lorien, whom Elrond delighted in throwing together with his human apprentice at every opportunity, as the Sylvan elf's haughtiness and Naurë's irreverence sparked against each other like dueling blades. She insisted on mothering the handsome elf, and he insisted on making fun of her youth. They taunted and teased each other mercilessly, until even Elrond was ready to gag them both and fling them from a cliff, but never did they seem to tire of it. 

It was whilst in Mirkwood that Elrond received word that his presence was required in Rivendell, but loathe was he to cut short Naurë's first and likely only trip to Rhûn. He had prevailed upon Haldir to continue to journey, and with a glance toward Naurë that bespoke the guardian's relish of troublemaking, he had agreed. 

The remainder of the summer was spent at leisurely travel. Once in Rhûn, they spent days at the seashore, and evenings in the cool forest, feasting on venison caught that day and singing late into the night. Haldir and the other elves hunted orc, to their great delight, whilst Naurë studied the medicine of that distant land, and furthered her knowledge of orcish poisoning tactics, the better to heal its damage.

Her need for the toxic arrows used by their foe, so she could gather some of the venom applied to the tips, had started their sole, infamous argument. Haldir wanted to simply attack the settlement, no matter that the elves were outnumbered five to one. Naurë, terrified of him being hurt, took it upon herself to try to sneak into the orcs' encampment at high noon, whilst they were sleeping. But she ever tended to forget her age, and that she was no longer as nimble as she had once been. Exhausted from her stealthy trek from the tent in which Haldir thought he had enclosed her, Naurë had stumbled and woken an orc, who then woke another, who then woke another. 

Soon the entire company was awake and eagerly brandishing implements of carnage at her, and if not for Haldir's momentous arrival (she still contended he'd been shouting like a fishwife) Naurë had no doubt she'd have been orc-dinner in short order. He had grabbed her arm, flung her behind him, and proceeded to decimate approximately two dozen slavering orcs before being satisfied that his soldiers could handle the rest, then hefted her over his shoulder and marched back to the tent. It was only after they'd arrived, he'd dropped her unceremoniously on her arse on the dirt floor, and promptly keeled over that she realized he'd sustained a grievous injury early on, and in spite of it, had gone on to fight valiantly for over an hour before carrying her back.

Her shock, embarrassment, and shame were as boundless as her tears. She tended to him, weeping the entire time, as he tossed and turned well into the night and the next day, his body fighting the filth and poison in his wound. His silvery hair matted with sweat against his flushed, beautiful face, Naurë had despised herself so thoroughly for her mistake that she had been hard-pressed not to take up his dagger and do herself harm. 

But the elvish constitution is a wondrous thing, and he had recovered in due time. His ire at her would have been vastly greater if not for the matter of the dwarves… Naurë could not swallow a giggle at the memory. Ah, poor Haldir… what she'd put him through. And yet, he was her friend, and loved her as deeply as did Elrond. She sighed, feeling unworthy of the affection of two such elves. 

After that fateful and bizarre summer, she had returned to Rivendell and stayed several more years. She would have been content to spend the rest of her life there, but for the urgent message from her son, Lacho, one drear and rainy morn. His feckless wife had decided that the life of a merchant's wife in Bree held not the thrill of her childhood in Rohan, and had departed for more exciting climes. Would not Naurë, his beloved mother, return and help him raise his daughter?

As it turned out, she would. Lalaith was a sober child, alarmingly so, and Naurë despaired of ever truly understanding her, but they got on well enough. As time went on, the girl showed a talent and interest in the healing arts, was bright and enthusiastic, if not especially joyous. Lalaith was seven-and-ten when Lacho died in a riding accident. Naurë had been besieged with offers for her granddaughter's hand in marriage, but she drew upon her association with Elrond and refused them all, saying that the elf lord had his own plans in mind for Lalaith's future. 

The years had slipped by, and Naurë's pet project had begun to consume most of her time. Inspired by her terror when Haldir had come so close to death, she had begun work on a remedy to counter the effects of any poison, any wound, any illness. It took her years of study and work, years of forcing spoonfuls of the horrid-tasting stuff down the throats of anyone who would stand still long enough, but finally, finally she had it. The correct balance of ingredients, the precise method of preparation. All she lacked was a king. 

It would not be long, now, until her remedy would be complete. Hoofbeats sounded on the cobblestones below, and Naurë leaned forward from her nest of blankets to peer over the railing. Already had Estel and the Hobbits made a dramatic entrance, and been whisked away for healing. She felt a pang of regret she was not well enough to assist Elrond, who she knew under a great deal of stress due to this Council, but if she did not save her strength during the day, it would be impossible to join the others for dinner, and she greatly enjoyed that meal and time with her friends and granddaughter, the laughter and song ringing in her ears, the graceful figures dancing their intricate steps in the candlelight…

Below in the courtyard, a handsome young Man dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to an elf. He introduced himself to Elrohir as Boromir of Gondor, and Naurë wondered if this Boromir would cause trouble with Estel… the Stewards of that land had ever considered themselves its sole proprietor, and would doubtless not look kindly upon an usurper of their power.

More horses, more riders. Dwarves, perhaps? No, not with that bright banner of hair streaming behind. For a tense moment, she thought the elf was Thranduil himself, and shuddered. No, she had not liked the king any more than he had her. But this elf, while nearly the image of Thranduil, was yet not him. One of his sons, perhaps. She wondered if he were any less daunting, any more welcoming, and decided to meet him. 

The door opened behind her, and slippered feet made their way to her side. "My lady," said a soft voice, and Naurë turned to find Aerlinn smiling down at her.

"Time to dress for supper, then?" she asked, and Aerlinn nodded, helping the old woman to her feet. Naurë stood a long moment, willing motion into her reluctant legs, and followed the elf-maid inside. She did not like needing assistance to change her attire, but arthritis had so severely attacked her fingers in these last months that buttons and laces were quite beyond her ability to conquer. She even had difficulty holding a comb, and hairpins were so impossible to manipulate that it was laughable. 

"There," Aerlinn said at last. "What think you of the vision in the mirror?"

Naurë stared hard, but the cataracts in her eyes made everything quite unpleasantly unclear. Sighing, she smiled at the elf. "I am a testament to your talents, young one," she said kindly. 

Aerlinn smiled back uncertainly. She knew the woman could hardly see any more, and that even her hearing was beginning to fade. It would not be long before she would remain all the day in bed, and indeed most of the elves of Imladris were uncomfortable around her, with the hazy, clouded eyes that saw nothing, with the need to raise one's voice to be heard. 

Her thoughts were pulled away from her musings when there was a rap on the door, and she opened it to reveal Elrohir and Elladan. "We are honoured to escort you, dear lady," said the former, as the latter held out his arm for her to grasp. Elrohir quickly took up a position on her other side, in case she should need more help, and Aerlinn took up the rear. Assisting Naurë to her sole public meal of the day was becoming quite a procession, she thought with a grin. 

Naurë seemed to think so as well, for her posture was aloof and her expression haughty as she stumped her way down the stairs and into the feasting hall, nodding with aplomb at all those who caught her eye. Due to the sensitive occasion, she would not be seated with Elrond—that honour would go to the most important dignitaries and diplomats. But further down the hall, there was dear Rûmil pulling out a chair for her, and Lalaith trying desperately not to seem overwhelmed with the pomp and luxury of the crowd around them, even as she steadfastly ignored the presence of the tawny-haired elf. 

Elrond smiled at her from his seat in the middle of the head table, and she smiled back at her friend. These next days would be interesting, indeed. 


	8. Chapter 8

The Fall of Night, Part 8

_A week later_

"Naurë, I introduce you to Legolas Thranduilion of Mirkwood." Elrond's gaze was keen as he watched the tall, handsome prince bow over the old woman's hand. 

The two eyed each other a long moment, a world of unspoken communication flowing between the two, and then Legolas spoke. "My father has warned me about you."

The indrawn breaths of horror at this unprecedented rudeness were heard throughout the room; with so many visitors in Rivendell, Elrond had taken to gathering his family and close friends in his private chambers after the evening meal, the better to converse and while the hours with chat, songs, and gaming. Consequently, his parlour was quite full this uncharacteristically chill November night, and most were huddled close round the massive fireplace. Naurë, thanks to her advanced age and frailty, was given place of honour directly beside it, basking in the warmth blazing from its depths. 

She watched Legolas closely; she had immediately recognized a kindred love of mischief and dry humour in this gentle soul. "Has he, little Greenleaf?" she drawled, sounded supremely disinterested in that king's opinion. "I need no warning to be wary of one of Thranduil's get." Another gasp, this one louder. Naurë barely suppressed a cackle of glee; even old and nearing the end of her days, she hadn't lost it. She tilted her head consideringly to one side and studied his flawless face. "I see you are his very image; is your nature as well a chip off the inhospitable old miser?"

A third gasp; Naurë had to pretend to cough to hide her smile behind her hand. Elrond looked quite as if he'd like to clap his hand over her mouth, to prevent her from further speech; Estel, Arwen and Lalaith were watching in stunned silence; Elladan, Elrohir, and Rûmil grinned broadly, trying valiantly not to laugh. And Legolas was apparently not at all bothered that this common human was insulting his esteemed and most royal father in a horrible fashion. He said nothing, but kissed her hand a second time before dropping to sit at her feet. She rumpled his silken hair with a quavery hand as he smiled fondly at her, and Rûmil could no longer restrain himself.

"Ai, that Haldir should miss this!" he declared happily, whisking a tear of laughter from his eye. "Always has he been proud how quickly you became his friend, and now Legolas has quite surpassed his speed. How he will be jealous, for he thinks himself the elf closest to your heart!"

Elrond frowned at this; Naurë only raised a brow. "Think you there is room in my heart for only one elf?" She graced her mentor with a fond smile before turning back to Rûmil. "I find as time passes, that organ is capable of endless expansion." She patted Legolas' head not unlike one might stoke a favoured pet dog. "And I believe it has just grown once more."

The shock of the introduction having worn off, the others settled into the comfortable seats ranged round the room and fell into conversation. Elrond sat in his carved chair, head leant toward his son as Elrohir told yet another off-colour joke ("A dwarf, an orc, and a balrog walk into a bar…"), and Estel and Rûmil conversed about their respective recent journeys to Rivendell. Rûmil looked quite put out that the Ranger had 'enjoyed' vastly more adventure than he himself had. 

Lalaith divided her time between the embroidery in her hands and glaring at Rûmil—really, Naurë would have to speak to the girl about that, it was quite obvious and if a half-blind old human could notice, then certainly the elves were all smiling behind their hands about it— and Elladan bragged about some hunting trip or another while Legolas listened patiently, an amused smile hovering about his lips.

And Arwen… Arwen merely watched Estel. Her eyes were gentle, and yet ravenous at the same time, as if starving for the sight of him, hale and whole. She was part lover, part friend, part mother, part she-beast wanting to suck the life out of him. Naurë sighed. Love could be a brutal thing. She knew Elrond was beyond puzzled at his daughter's choice of mortality, but then he had not understood his brother's decision, either. Arwen, loving Estel as she did… there was no other choice for her. None other could be made.

 Naurë was sad to say that she did not have great knowledge of Elrond's youngest child and only daughter. Much of the time she had known her mentor, the Evenstar had been either away with her grandparents in distant Lorien, or else closeted with Estel—the devotion those two bore each other was breathtaking. And so, Naurë had never become closer to the exquisite she-elf than warm acquaintances.

Watching Arwen's face as she gazed upon her human betrothed, seeing the anguish there at the danger in which he would soon place himself, she felt deep sympathy. Well did Naurë understand the pain of having to sit helplessly whilst one's love went to possible death and certain injury. Arwen looked up then, noticing the old woman's eyes upon her, and nodded in recognition of the other's understanding of her plight, a faint smile on her lovely mouth. Naurë smiled in return, and leant her head back against the chair, surveying with half-lidded eyes those who surrounded her. She counted herself and Lalaith privileged to be of their number, and hoped her granddaughter too realized the honour granted her. 

"Good lady," Estel said to her, touching her lightly on the arm, and she gazed at him lazily, feeling drowsy from the warmth and wine. 

"Yes, Estel?"

He held in his hand a small canvas sack that she recognized at once; she'd had Lalaith give it to him a month ago with a request he bless the athelas within at his leisure. "My apologies for their delay," he said, giving the sack to her. "Will you need more than this?"

Naurë took it with a nod of gratitude. "I thank you," she told him. "You have indeed been a great help to this old woman. Fret not for your tardiness, as you have worries upon your head of much greater import than whispering a few words over my herbs." She handed the bag over to Lalaith. "And no, this quantity will be quite sufficient for my purposes. The remedy will be very powerful, and I would not have much of it to hand. If it were acquired by the wrong people, there is no telling what could occur."

Estel inclined his head. "Honoured am I to be able to contribute to it." He returned to his conversation with Rûmil and surreptitious exchange of lustful glances with Arwen that he thought no one noticed, and Naurë allowed her eyes to close, listening with only one ear to the muted talk, the crackling of the fire…

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable sleeping in your bed, instead of that chair," suggested a quiet voice from the vicinity of the floor, and she opened her eyes to find Legolas looking kindly up at her. "Will you allow me to escort you?"

"I will," she agreed ruefully, and tried to extract herself from the robes and shawls draped across her. Honestly, these elves, so afraid of her catching a chill… one of these days they would bury her in an avalanche of blankets. Legolas laughed softly and helped pull her free of her soft cocoon. "Lalaith, will you come?"

Her granddaughter looked only too happy to be away; with a last narrow glance at Rûmil, who blithely laughed in her face, she lifted her chin to a truly impressive altitude as Naurë bid good eve to the others, dropping a fond kiss on Elrond's forehead, and followed Lalaith out the door on Legolas' strong arm. 

"So, how long has she pined for him?" he whispered, bending close to her ear so Lalaith could not hear him.

Naurë dimpled up at him. "Far longer than she is comfortable with." She tugged on a lock of ale-gold hair that fell down his shoulder. "Did Thranduil truly warn you about me?"

Legolas laughed, the sound pure and clear, like water trickling over the falls. "Actually, yes," he admitted. "He said you have an uncanny talent for befriending elves, and it made him very suspicious indeed." He paused a moment. "If I recall correctly, he said you were a witch, and employed powerful spells to make Elrond and Haldir trust you."

Her raspy laugh echoed off the hallway; ahead of them, Lalaith stopped and turned to regard them with curiosity. 

"What have you said to make her carry on so?" Lalaith asked mildly, her eyes soft as her grandmother leaned her forehead wearily against Legolas' arm and hiccupped. 

But Naurë gave him no time to answer. "Spellcraft? Oh, you poor child, to lose your father to insanity…" And she was off on another peal of laughter. 

Legolas chuckled as well. "He could think of no other explanation for the two most canny and wary elves in Arda to be so devoted to you."

"I suppose he did not notice that I am equally devoted to them?" Naurë asked sourly, and smirked when he shook his head to the negative. "Hmph. Always do they think the worst of humanity. As if elves are beyond corruption…" They had arrived at her room, and Lalaith opened the door. Naurë sighed. "It is of no consequence, anyway, fair Greenleaf. I will not see him again."

"But you shall see me again," he promised, and she smiled sadly at him a long moment before cupping his smooth ivory cheek in her gnarled hand. 

"That is my fond hope, as well," she told him. "I will pray for you when you leave tomorrow, Thranduilion. Be safe, and guard Estel. Arwen would not survive his demise." Legolas nodded gravely, and with a final nod to Lalaith, left them. 

By the light of a single candle, the young one helped the old one to undress. Supple fingers unlaced and unbuttoned, tugged off and pulled on. Naurë allowed her limbs to be moved not unlike a doll's, then her hair to be released from its pins and combed, and noted that Lalaith was humming.

"My beloved child," she said once her nightdress was in place and her granddaughter was tucking the covers round her frail body. Lalaith looked down at her, eyebrows lifted in enquiry. "Sit, I would speak with you before I sleep." She patted the bed beside her.

Obediently, Lalaith sat. "Yes, Nana?"

Naurë lifted the fresh young hand, studied it with rheumy eyes before raising her gaze to the other's. "I would know why you are so hostile to Rûmil. Your manners are usually impeccable, but never have I seen you behave with such a lack of decorum. It shames me, but moreso, it shames you." Fatigue was quickly overcoming her; her voice dropped to a whisper. "They will be your family when I am gone, Lalaith. I would not have you uncomfortable here with them."

The girl's eyes rounded in alarm. "What? No! I do not wish to live here! Nana!" she exclaimed, but there was no answer. She reached out to shake her grandmother awake, but drew back, ashamed of her selfishness. Naurë had had a long and tiring day; she would not wake her only to continue a futile discussion.

Lalaith spent a few moments tidying Naurë's room, folding her clothing, gathering piles of notes and diagrams, trying to delay her return to Elrond's parlour, but finally it could be postponed no longer. She blew out the candle and left the room, the door shutting with a soft click behind her.

She took a step forward, but was brought up short by the figure of Legolas, leaning against the wall opposite Naurë's door. "Y—your highness," Lalaith stammered, eyes lowered in what she hoped was a properly respectful way. She'd never met royalty, and was unsure what to do.

"My lady," he replied smoothly, and fell into step beside her as she began to walk. "You do not wish to live in Rivendell? It is a most pleasant city." He smiled sideways at her. "There are no spiders; believe me when I tell you, that is a very positive point, indeed."

She flicked a glance sideways at him, suspicious of his interest. Should she trust him? Seeing no malice or guile in his expression, she relaxed a fraction. Nana was an excellent judge of character; if she would befriend Legolas so instantly, then Lalaith could as well. "I am not comfortable here. It is not my place; these are not my people." 

"Then perhaps in Caras Galadhon you would find a home?" he suggested.

Her eyes flashed before she forced them to calm. "Indeed not," she said as neutrally as she could manage. 

"Because of Rûmil," he finished.

Lalaith nodded and turned her head away, focusing on the fingers she trailed on the wall, feeling the irregular bumps and hollows of the plaster. 

"What can he have done to make you hate him so?" Legolas looked truly perplexed. "I have known him for many years, and ever has he been a delightful companion."

They were just outside the door to Elrond's parlour; within could be heard the musical sound of elven laughter and talk. "I hate him because I cannot stop loving him, though constantly do I try." She closed her eyes in a moment of agony. "He cares nothing for me, pays no attention but to mock me." 

Legolas knew the truth of what she was saying; all evening had he watched the sly wit and barbs directed at the young woman from Rûmil. Between elves, it would have been of no consequence; perhaps even considered an overture of friendship or courtship. But she was no elf, and in fact seemed uncommonly serious. She had not smiled or laughed all night, a puzzling contrast to the cheerful nature of her name. Lalaith could not appreciate Rûmil's personal brand of charm as it was meant, and instead took offense at it.

"I am sorry for your pain," he said at last, and she knew he meant it. She lowered her eyes in gratitude, her head bending on her neck like a flower drooping upon its stem, and Legolas was struck with the poignancy of the action. 

"Thank you," she whispered, and squared her shoulders as if going into battle. _No shortage of courage with this one, _Legolas thought, and pushed open the door for her, following her in and watching as she resumed her seat, confirming to Elrond that her grandmother slept comfortably, exchanging comments with Arwen and Estel when they could be pulled from their mutual admiration of each other, and resolutely ignoring the fact that Rûmil even breathed. 


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Just some friendly advice from yer Aunt Cinnie here… buckle your seat belts for this chapter. Trauma and angst ahoy.

Please, please review for me. Just this chapter, if none of the rest… I REALLY wanna know what you think of what I've done here. Dove bars for all who tell me their opinions!

The Fall of Night, Part 9

Seven weeks later 

"Lalaith, please come with me," Aerlinn whispered into her friend's ear, touching her lightly on the arm. The woman turned from where she stood in the courtyard, her hand shielding her eyes from the early sunlight of this midwinter morn, to frown at the elf. 

"Is something wrong?" Lalaith asked, reading concern in the other's cobalt eyes. She'd gotten up early to watch as the Fellowship departed on their journey to Mordor, wanting to bid farewell to Legolas. In the past weeks she had found in him a dear friend, and would miss his pleasant presence. He never made her feel stupid or defective because she did not smile or laugh.

"Please," Aerlinn repeated. "Be you quiet, do not make Elrond or the others know; they are needed here. But your grandmother…"

Lalaith blinked. "Say no more," she replied calmly, and began to march back toward the house and up to Naurë's room. Once out of earshot, she demanded, "What has happened to her?"

"It is not serious," Aerlinn assured her, slightly out of breath from the brisk trot set by her companion. "I went to help her to the balcony, that she too could see the Fellowship go, but she cannot leave her bed."

Nodding, Lalaith briefly squeezed Aerlinn's slender hand in thanks. "I will attend her, go you down and tell Legolas I wish him well."

She opened the door to find her grandmother sitting up in bed, propped against a veritable mountain of pillows, with another mountain covering her from chest to toes. Her eyes were closed beneath hoary brows, and the slack flesh of her face fell even more deeply than usual into folds around her jaw and chin. Naurë's face looked like a withered old apple, and Lalaith's heart clenched in misery.

"Nana?" she murmured, and pulled a chair close to the bed. Instead of harboring the lingering scent of lilac toilette water that Naurë favoured, the room smelled stuffy and medicinal, as a sickroom would. Apprehension filled Lalaith as Naurë's eyelashes fluttered. 

"Lalaith, dearest," Naurë croaked, and reached out a feeble hand, quickly taken up by her granddaughter. The skin was as fragile as old parchment, and had been for years, but the greyish tinge it had taken since Haldir's exodus to Lorien was more pronounced. 

Since Haldir had left… Lalaith frowned as a suspicion began to pluck at her sleeve for attention. Her grandmother, while old, had been healthy and strong until the day the Guardian had returned to his forest. "Nana, surely you are not ailing so because Haldir has gone?" It seemed utterly unlike Naurë to pine for lack of someone… had not she persevered after the deaths of her husband and children? Would it not take far more to force the formidable woman to her knees?

"Surely **not**," Naurë replied, her voice so wispy that Lalaith had to lean forward to hear it. Still, there was a core of iron in it. "As if I would languish over that crazy elf." Her breath shuddered in and out while she labored to speak. "I am ailing because that day, I stopped taking my tonic."

"What?" Lalaith shouted, bounding to her feet. Naurë opened her eyes then, and leveled such a look of censure at her granddaughter that Lalaith quailed. Breathing hard a moment, she forced herself to calm. "Why would you do such a thing?" she asked a moment later, her voice much quieter. 

Allowing her eyes to shut, Naurë smiled faintly. "Because I no longer need it. I have no more need for artifice in staying alive. All the threads of my life are being woven in, Lalaith. I am secure in knowing you will be cared for. Estel blessed the athelas and I have my remedy, the remedy that will help people, the culmination of my life's work. If only I'd had it years ago, Haldir would not have suffered as he did. Be sure it is used for good, and trust him, and Elrond. Legolas will stand by you, as well. Love them as I have."

She forced her eyes to open once more, but seemed not to see how tears had spilled from Lalaith's eyes, and now coursed down her shocked, terrified face. "My work is done. I am finished." She smiled at her granddaughter, a smile of pure sweetness and love. "I am finished, Lalaith." 

Her eyelids drooped a final time, and a light seemed to leave the room, leaving it much diminished. "No," Lalaith moaned, and darted her gaze frantically around the room. Alighting on a familiar bottle on the dresser, she ran to it, her fingers clenching greedily around the cool glass, and back to the bed, fumbling to uncork it. With a hand more rough than tender, she pushed at Naurë's jaw, making the old woman's mouth open, and lowered the bottle to her lips.

Then the door banged open to reveal Rûmil,. "Why did you shout?" he demanded. 

Lalaith's arm jerked in surprise, and a wave of thick violet fluid spilled from the bottle and into Naurë's mouth. 

"What is that?" Rûmil strode across the room, his face concerned.

Lalaith's eyes widened in horror—Naurë's tonic was thin, and red, and did not smell as pungent. The only thing she knew of that had such colour, density, scent was… "The new remedy," she muttered. "And it has not been diluted." She felt faint as the implication of what she'd done washed over her, and the bottle slipped from her nerveless fingers to smash on the floor. 

She was only dimly aware, after that, of the chaos that followed. How the shards of bottle had flown, how the remedy had splattered over her feet and the hem of her skirts, and how Rûmil's gasp of shock had become a shout for help when Naurë began to thrash on the bed. Harsh hands pushed Lalaith aside, gentle ones grasped her shoulders and led her to a chair in the corner. A concerned gaze peered into her own numb one, and someone spoke to her, but she heard nothing as she stared at her grandmother, seeing but not comprehending Elrond's white, anxious face as he tried to help Naurë, his sons' strong arms holding the old woman down as he attempted to make her vomit up the concoction.

Elrond turned to her then, shouting her name. When she remained unresponsive, he slapped her with rather more force than strictly necessary. "Why does nothing come up?" he demanded. 

Lalaith turned blank eyes toward where she thought his face might be. "It… absorbs instantly," she replied automatically, her voice sounding like it came from very far away. "Nana wanted it to work immediately, and eliminated anything that might delay its digestion. It goes directly into the bloodstream." 

Elrond swore, an oath so powerful that even Rûmil, who had spent the whole of his life surrounded by warriors and soldiers, flinched at its obscenity. "Then there is naught I can do," the lord of Rivendell said, sounding impossibly tired and defeated. "Just give her a sedative and hope it brings her ease." Naurë's convulsions had lessened, and she now only twitched a little, her head tossing restlessly on the pillows, her hands and feet trembling like leaves in a high wind. 

He turned to Lalaith then, and the dark expression on his face was the same as that seen by his enemies just before he slew them with cruel and vicious prejudice. "Be gone from my sight," he told her, his voice arctic as he turned deliberately away from her. 

Aerlinn wrapped an arm around Lalaith's waist and guided her from the room. Lalaith allowed herself to be steered; she was not paying a whit of attention. The elf-maiden could have shoved her over the falls and she would not have noticed, nor cared. Once in a smaller sitting room, Aerlinn pushed her friend to sit, kneeling before her and clasping her ice-cold hands. "What have you done, Lalaith?"

"Yes, I too would like to know this," hissed a voice, and Lalaith looked up to see Rûmil framed by the doorway. "Be you glad Haldir is not here; he has none of Elrond's restraint. I have no doubt you would be trussed like a slain deer at this moment were he not gone these past months."

"Rûmil, you are not helping!" Aerlinn snapped, glaring fiercely at him before schooling her features into a more gentle mask. "Lalaith?" She squeezed the girl's hands to gain her attention. Slowly, Lalaith turned her numb gaze from Rûmil to her friend. "What did you do?"

"I—" Her voice faltered, failed. "She told me how she had stopped taking her tonic, the one that had kept her alive these last years. She stopped the day Haldir left." Lalaith's voice was monotone as she recited the facts as she knew them. "She said she didn't need it any more, her threads were all woven…" She lifted dull eyes to them. "What does that mean?" 

But they had no answer, and she continued as if the words were being dragged, kicking and screaming, from her throat. "She had completed the new remedy. She wished she'd had it for Haldir, so long ago. She was done. She was secure. She was happy. She said she was finished."

Lalaith drew in a sobbing breath then. "I became so afraid, and reached for the bottle of her tonic, and uncorked it. Only, when I saw it, I knew it wasn't the tonic, but the new remedy, with the athelas that Estel had blessed." Aerlinn gasped, and Rûmil frowned deeper. "I did not mean to!" she shouted, despair overwhelming her. "When you came in, so noisy, it startled me! I never meant to harm her, you know I would not!"

"But by your carelessness, you have," said a new voice from behind Rûmil. There stood Elrond, hands tightly clasped before him. "How you could give a dose to someone, without ascertaining first what it was, without using a spoon or measure… I think I now know why Naurë felt you unable to make your living as a healer." His cold words slashed at Lalaith like a blade. "Not from lack of humour, but lack of competence. And lack of empathy with your patients."

He stepped forward and grasped her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. They were grey and hard, like chips of stone. He was possessed by a blind and barbaric fury, she realized, and only his rigid control was preventing him from killing her on the spot. "As a healer, I am beyond appalled at your conduct. As Naurë's mentor and friend…" He released her face and stepped back, as if her very presence polluted him. "As her mentor and friend," he continued in a whisper, "You make me long to flay you alive."

Aerlinn made a distressed sound from her corner; Rûmil put his arm around her shoulder, offering her some comfort, but his face was just as rigid as Elrond's. 

"Have you any idea what your grandmother has done for you? Sacrificed for you?" he demanded as Lalaith shrank back in her chair. "What she has given up to provide a home for you? She wasted a lifetime of talent and knowledge to lance boils on peasants in Bree, for Elbereth's sake, when she could have been here, studying under the finest healers of the age." 

He clasped his hands once more, and she knew it was to keep them from wrapping around her neck. "Do you know how she has worried about you? What she endured to travel here at her age, and arrange for your future? Foolish, thankless girl," he hissed. "All you could think of were your own needs, your own fears. And now, once more, Naurë pays to relieve you of them." 

He turned away then, staring out the window, seeing nothing. Once he had composed himself, he faced Lalaith once more. "Now we work to help her as much as possible. As is often the case, I suspect the cure for overdose of this remedy will be found in the potion itself. Where is the rest of it?"

"The rest of it?" Lalaith repeated stupidly. "There is no more, that was the only bottle Nana made. She wanted to keep the amount small."

Elrond sighed. "I know this. Where is the remainder of Estel's athelas? For I have Naurë's notes, and a barrel of the old recipe, awaiting only the addition of the blessed kingsfoil."

"But that is what I am trying to tell you!" Lalaith cried. "There is no more! All that he gave us, we distilled, and used the whole quantity in what we made!"

"So you are telling me," Elrond said casually, almost conversationally, "That the only thing that will bring your grandmother out of the coma in which she currently resides is an ingredient that is very difficult to acquire, and of which there is no more left in all of Arda?" His voice rose until, by the end, he was shouting.

As Elrond didn't shout very often—the last recorded incident had been at the beginning of the Second Age-- it was a very daunting sight. Aerlinn swayed on her feet, as if to faint, and Rûmil handed her off to Elrohir, who lurched into the room as the last notes of his father's diatribe faded away. He spirited the elf-maid away, and Elladan immediately took his place in glaring at Lalaith, who promptly burst into tears now that her sole supporter was gone.

"I am sorry," she whispered over and over. "I am sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I am sorry."

"You had better be more than sorry," Elrond told her, smiling unpleasantly. "You had best be ready to travel."

"Travel?" Lalaith asked.

"Travel?" Rûmil asked.

"Travel?" Elladan asked.

"Yes, travel," he affirmed grimly. "For on the morrow, you leave with a bag of athelas and your best outfit of sackcloth and ashes."

Her tear-streaked face was wan and pinched, and very, very frightened. "But where am I going?"

"Thranduil is the closest, but he bears no love for Naurë, and would not help us." Elrond paced a bit before the fireplace. "No, you must go to Heleg." Ignoring the expressions of shock on the faces of the others, he bit his lip thoughtfully. "If you ride hard—and you will be riding very hard, I assure you—you can be there and back in eight weeks. Seven, if you push yourselves unmercifully." 

He settled a hard glance on her. "You had best begin your arrangements," he told her coolly. "I care not if you wear naught but your nightdress and a smile; tomorrow at dawn, your arse will be planted on a horse that rides west toward the city of Eryn Vorn, in the realm of Minhiriath." He tilted his head consideringly. "And if you do not manage to bring back those athelas, blessed by the king of that land, do not bother returning, for you will find no welcome here." 


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Got lotsa people wondering about Elrond going unhinged. I wanted to make it clear, by his words and actions, how elves are very passionate people. They don't often get pissed off, when when they do, watch out. They're also sensitive about the issue of death—remember how he reacted in Chapter 5 when Naurë said, "There are times I am glad my days are few"?

The Fall of Night, Part 10

8 January 3019

_I think Rûmil mocks me for keeping this journal; that he thinks I am pretending I have at least one friend who will listen to me, but it is not true. He will not understand how I do not wish to forget a single thing, not a single moment of loathing or despair or regret. Years from now, when I am Nana's age, I want to be able to read back these words I write, and know what it is to make a terrible mistake, and have to repair it._

_He still has not spoken to me beyond barking orders in my direction, never meeting my eyes. I obey, of course, but cannot help feeling that if he despises me so, he should not have insisted on leading this sullen group of elves and me on this insane mission. I know he waits for me to complain, about the cold or how sore I am, or something else, but I will not. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Smug prat. As if in all the years he's been alive, he has never made a mistake?_

Also, it would be an insult to Nana for me to whine about any discomfort I feel. If not for me, she would not be lying between life and death in Rivendell, surrounded by worried friends. And I would not be here in Bree, in The Prancing Pony's shabbiest room, far from her side, banished from the one person who truly loves me.

_Bree. How I had longed to be here again! How I had thought to be welcomed home with wide arms from those who have known me from birth! How convinced I was of its superiority to Rivendell! And how mistaken I was, in all ways. Men are fickle, and not only in love. Our absence for so long has made most people forget us, and those who have not, mistrust us for our familiarity with the elves. Returning with a dozen in tow has but confirmed their suspicions. When this horror, this nightmare, is all over there will be nothing for me here. None in Bree will come to me for healing. _

_Perhaps I will go to Minas Tirith, and throw myself on the mercy of the Steward. His son seemed pleasant enough whilst in Rivendell for the Council. That is, if the Ringbearer will succeed in destroying the Ring. If not, I fear there will be no point in my worrying about finding a home and position for myself. All will be left to wrack and ruin. Even with my dark thoughts of guilt and repentance, still I can feel the spread of evil across Middle-Earth. _

_My sleep is poor, these last nights, and not from sleeping on the ground with strange elves curled close for warmth—that, surprisingly, is quite comfortable. My dreams have haunted me, all the more because they are not dreams, but memories. Memories of Nana thrashing on the bed, of Elrond's face as he said horrible, truthful things to me. Of Aerlinn as she tried so desperately to protect me, even as she tried to understand my actions. She has been a fine friend, and it has hurt me terribly to know how I have frightened her._

_And a memory of the thing that started it all, repeating so slowly in my head, over and over. That thick spill of violet into Nana's mouth, that gush of what should have been a remedy, but what has ended up being a poison, a toxin. I do not have to be asleep for this to come to me. Even awake, whilst we ride, or walk, or eat, this remembrance of a torrent of vivid purple, a wave of death has the power to freeze me with shame and denial that it is possible, what I have done. I do not think I will ever be able to bear the colour, the rest of my life._

My prayers are for Nana, for our group to travel to Minhiriath and back with speed and success, and for the Fellowship. I pray we are not too late to bring Nana some measure of peace before her death, instead of the fevered writhing that gripped her when we left thirteen days ago. I pray that Legolas and Estel are well, and the others. May they remain safe and hale, please, Eru.

If I be perfectly honest, I also pray that Haldir does not yet know of what I have done to Nana. I fear there is no haven distant enough to keep me safe from his rage. 

Lalaith set down her quill and scattered sand over the last page of writing, drying the ink, before closing the journal and tucking it away in the sole pack allowed her on this voyage. Beside the journal, quill and ink, she had been permitted a single change of clothing, small healing kit, and a supply of food beside her bedroll, Rûmil wanting to travel lightly for all possible speed.

To this end, he had refused more than the smallest number of warriors Elrond would permit—a mere dozen besides himself and Lalaith. Any more would slow them down, he insisted. None of them were informed of the entire truth behind the voyage; only that Lalaith's grandmother was ailing and needed a certain ingredient that could only be obtained from this distant kingdom. They were polite, of course, but it did not take an exceptional quantity of perception to note that Rûmil was remote to the point of rudeness to the sole female in their party. They followed had his lead and gave her only the minimal amount of interaction. If not for the journal, she'd have had hardly any communication with anyone…er… anything… in over a week.

The journal had been a surprising gift from Elrond. He had thrust it into her hands even as her horse had taken its first steps out of the city. "This can be a valuable lesson for you," was all he had told her. "Do not squander the opportunity." She had faithfully written in it daily, steadfastly ignoring the amused looks of the elven soldiers that accompanied them, and Rûmil's openly hostile glares. 

Rûmil would be knocking on her door at any moment, and she had no doubt he would still be angry at her insistence on a bath before eating, but she hadn't washed her hair since departing Rivendell and would be denied no longer. Clean now, and dressed in her only other gown, she had washed her grubby clothing in the bathwater and spread it over a chair before the fire to dry before sitting with her back to the inefficient, smoky fireplace in hopes of speeding her hair to dryness as well before taking up journal and quill and proceeding to record her thoughts for the day. Sadness overcame her as she wrote, making her eyes flood, and a tear escaped in spite of her determined sniffing and blinking to roll down her cheek just as a knock sounded on the door. She scrubbed it away as she opened it to reveal Rûmil with a plate of food and cup of drink.

"Still pitying yourself?" he asked, the calm tone of his voice belied by the snideness of the words. He was framed by the torchlight from the hallway, his golden hair glowing around his face, giving him the look of an angel. _How appearances can be deceiving_, she thought bitterly, and stepped back to allow him entrance.

Lalaith said nothing in reply, but took the plate from his hand and seated herself before the fire once more. The chair was narrow, and hard, a knot from a branch not sanded from the seat and so poking her uncomfortably in her backside. She dug the fork into the beef—she assumed it was beef, as it was in a slab and somewhat leathery—and tried to cut it before giving up and holding it up, sinking her teeth into it and tearing off a mouthful.

"Charming," Rûmil commented, and sat on the bed. She knew he watched her, and was proud of the way her hands only trembled a tiny bit under his scrutiny. In spite of the poorness of the food, Lalaith had been hungry from a diet of lembas and dried meat for almost a fortnight, and found herself using the somewhat stale crust of bread to scrape up the last drop of greyish sauce from the dented tin plate.

She sipped the last of the watered wine from the battered tin cup. "My thanks," she told him when she had wiped her mouth on the napkin he had brought—elves were nothing if aware of etiquette—and he bowed very formally in return. "To where do we head tomorrow?" She placed the cup and plate on the rickety table beside the door, then dug in her pack for a comb.

"The Great Bend of the River Baranduin," he replied, gazing idly in her direction as she combed the last of the moisture from her hair and braided it in its usual single plait, but not winding it into a crown on the back of her head, as was her usual coif. The plait hung in a thick cable of dark chestnut down her back, contrasting with the bright green gown she wore. "Your bath was acceptable?"

Lalaith nodded. "Quite. I thank you for arranging it." Then, "How long do you expect it to take, this leg of the journey, to the Great Bend?"

"A sen'night," was his reply. "It would be longer, but we get fresh horses here in Bree, and will push them hard."

She nodded again, and stood. "Shall I return the plate?"

"Best that you not," Rûmil said, and took it from the table. "It is late now, and the patrons are well into their cups. A woman would not be safe."

A third nod. "I thank you again."

Her composure seemed to disturb something in him. "How polite you are," he pointed out, his voice silken. "Your manners have improved drastically since leaving Imladris." He smiled then, a nasty cat-like little curl of the corners of his mouth. "So sad that it took trying to kill your own grandmother to bring about this improvement."

Lalaith opened her mouth as if to speak, and then pressed it tightly closed, so tightly that they lost colour completely. The waxen slash of her lips was like a scar across her countenance, and Rûmil felt ashamed of his pettiness and cruelty. It was poorly done of him, truly—he an elf of over a millennium of age, and she barely a score of years… "I am sorry for that," he said. "Please forgive me."

"Of course," she said after a long, tense moment of silence. "This is a journey of redemption, after all. Who am I to deny you?" And before he could reply to that extraordinary statement, she went to hold open the door for him, clearly indicated she wanted him anywhere else but there. Rûmil bowed and left her.

Her words repeated in his head. Did she mock him? Was it possible to know? Her tone had been bland, her face without expression, and yet…And yet. Though she said not a word, her eyes had blazed, they and her dark brows almost shockingly dark against the pallor of her face. He read pain in their depths, pain and sorrow and regret. There was little of the petulance and pettiness he had observed during their argument in the garden, months ago.

_So she begins to grow up_, Rûmil mused as he returned the plate to the kitchen belowstairs, and to his own surprise, the thought made him feel not smug, but pleased. It was very distressing to his people that humans the same age as elvish children were given the duties and responsibilities of an adult, and as often as not, their inexperience and immaturity caused drastic problems. This issue with the One Ring was a perfect example—if Isildur had possessed the wisdom that Elrond and the other First-born had, he would have cast the evil thing into Mount Doom all those years ago. 

But, alas, Estel's ancestor had succumbed to that childish lust for power, the lust that had not faded from him as it had from those who were centuries older. And because of his youth, all of Arda was placed in extreme danger. A terrible burden had been placed upon the Nine, and the Ringbearer in particular. Rûmil breathed a word of plea to Elbereth to guide and protect the Fellowship on their task, and hoped the Hobbit's pure soul would be sufficient proof against the seduction of the Ring he wore so close to his heart.

"Else all be lost," he finished, the pronouncement leaving him hollow with fear as he pushed open the door to his own room. There awaited two of his elves, Brethil and Erêgmorn, and he schooled his features to a more placid expression.

"The lady is well?" Erêgmorn enquired, and seemed satisfied with Rûmil's silent nod. Rûmil removed his clothing and climbed between the coarse sheets, frowning with displeasure at their humble lodgings. 

Brethil chuckled from the other side of the bed. "Be you glad you are not Erêgmorn," he advised his bed-mate, nodding toward the third elf, who glowered back at him as he left the room. "He drew the short straw to guard Lalaith tonight, and will pass his night standing in the hallway outside her door."

"Care you to wager how fiercely he will complain tomorrow of the soreness of his feet?" Rûmil asked with a laugh. 

Brethil thought a moment. "I think he will commence his whining as soon as he sees us. After… let us say, seven minutes… of describing the exact way his arches ache, with much use of words like "throbbing" and "pounding", he will then threaten to beat you to death with a shovel. You will laugh at him, and he will stomp away to have a pout."

Rûmil grinned. "Hm. An explicit prediction, to be sure." He thought a moment. "I believe he will sulk for no less than twenty-two minutes and refuse to eat breakfast, thinking it will spite us. He will not notice how we laugh at him. Then he will tell us how his toes are sore, issue dire predictions of how this will somehow affect his archery skills, and declare that the next time he is denied his comfort he will tear out my ribcage and wear it as a hat."

"Erêgmorn uses his toes for archery?" Brethil's shoulders shook with laughter. "I must learn this technique; surely it will guarantee perfect aim every time." He rolled over to his side and yawned. "And what shall we wager?"

"Why, the winner shall be the proud new owner of a full packet of lembas!" Rûmil replied with exaggerated cheer, very glad that his dark thoughts had been lifted by the Rivendell elf's higher spirits, and ignoring Brethil's groan at mention of the 'prize'. After eating little but waybread for the past fortnight, with little else more to follow for many more weeks, it was less a reward than a punishment. 

Rûmil listened as Brethil's breathing steadied and deepened, and knew the other slept. He wasn't tired, but his body needed rest even if his mind refused to slow its stream of thoughts and musings. He knit his fingers together behind his head and stared upwards into the darkness, and barely noticed when he himself fell into Reverie.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Please forgive the crappy formatting of the previous chapter, ff.net likes to bugger up my pretty pages and make them ugly. I can't seem to fix it.

The Fall of Night, Part 11

14 January 3019

A sen'night since we have left Bree, and a wonder that I still have all my fingers and toes. The snow is both deep and heavy as we travel the Andrath Greenway between the two halves of the South Downs, very hard going indeed. I suggested to Rûmil that we might benefit from acquiring a sleigh, the easier and quicker to travel, but he looked at me as if I'd lost my senses. How was I to know to elves think conveyances like sleighs are silly, and bad luck, as well?

_My horse, Lagor, is fine and sure-footed; he also excels at staying near his comrades when the snow falls thickly and I cannot see to steer him. I do not think Rûmil would allow me to perish, but there is no gentleness in his words or manner when he wheels back to ensure I am still with them. I do not rely on him, but on Lagor, to keep me from wandering too far astray. _

_We are camped at Sarn Ford, at the southron end of The Shire. Many Hobbits have we seen since leaving Bree. They have invited us to join them in meals, to pass the night in their homes, but Rûmil refuses them all. I think he believes, with good reason as I recall the enthusiasm of the Ringbearer's companions, that we will get sidetracked by their effusive hospitality and delay our journey. _

_That has not stopped him, however, from encouraging poor Erêgmorn from trying their pipe-weed. Of all the elves who accompany us, Erêgmorn has been the sweetest to me, and I feel it most unkind for the others to laugh so hard at his reddened face and watering eyes as he coughed and coughed… one would think an elf of his years would know better than to trust a one as Rûmil. I am beginning to believe Brethil another of his trickster-ilk, for he was the one who purchased the pipe-weed in the first place._

_Erêgmorn is still terribly hurt over some wager those two made back in Bree. Rûmil is most put out that Brethil won the bet, whatever it was. Still, Erêgmorn's annoyance is my benefit, for each time they tease him he comes to join me, and we spend a pleasant hour talking before Brethil or Rûmil sends another jibe his way and he feels honour-bound to engage them in argument. While we ride side-by-side and chat, Rûmil sends many irked glances our way. He must begrudge me any companionship or pleasure whatsoever, for him to glare so hotly at me._

_And should Erêgmorn happen to touch me, when assisting me on or off Lagor or over a hillock of snow, Rûmil looks positively furious, as if he would strike Erêgmorn. He wishes to isolate me completely, but I will not let him. If Erêgmorn wishes friendship with me, he shall have it. We have yet another month to travel, perhaps more, and I do not intend to refuse whatever small kindness may come my way._

_We follow the Baranduin now and true to its name, its waters, too swift to freeze, are a deep gold-brown that remind me of Nana's eyes. I still see them every night, see them gazing upon me with peace and love as she says, "I am finished, Lalaith." I denied her completion. Her rest, I prevented. I think of her lying in that bed, Elrond speaking to her unhearing ears as Aerlinn watches with worried eyes, Nana's hands idle for the first time in her long life, and feel shame so deep I can hardly keep from ripping at my hair, clawing at my skin. _

_Apart from the weather, we have had no trouble. Rûmil worries about orcs, I know, but none have we seen so far. It is my fond hope that this trend continues, as in a battle I will be worse than useless and would not want to cause another to be harmed in protecting me. In spite of their jovial exteriors, both Rûmil and Brethil are brave warriors, courageous and swift, and would not hesitate to fling themselves in front of me.  _

_I must finish now, as the fire is lit and it is my turn to cook our supper. Erêgmorn has said he will help me, to make sure it will suit an elven palate. Even now, Rûmil shoots me apprehensive glances, and I know he worries that my cuisine will not please._

_Eru, keep us safe, and guard well the Fellowship. I worry for Legolas, and hope he does not despair as the darkness grows._

Lalaith took her seat between Erêgmorn and Brethil, watching in satisfaction as the rabbit stew she had prepared, with much unsolicited advice from the latter and Rûmil, was eagerly devoured after the first hesitant spoonfuls. 

"Tis excellent," Rûmil admitted grudgingly when he held out his bowl for a second helping. She ladled for him mostly gravy and vegetables, with few of the succulent bits of meat (but much gristle and cartilage), and he frowned down at it as he returned to his seat by the fire.

"You need not sound so surprised," she sniffed at him, and heaped loads of rabbit in Erêgmorn's bowl, with just a bit of carrot on the side, for garnish it would seem. "Do not stuff yourselves, for I thickened it with lembas."

"It is an honour to have you with us on this journey, my lady," Erêgmorn told her with grave courtesy.

"She is the reason for this journey," Rûmil informed him, waving his arm expansively to indicate their surroundings. "We have her to thank for these luxurious accommodations." 

Lalaith was gripped by the urge to empty the remaining contents of the iron pot over his golden hair. She imagined how he would look with brown sauce dripping down his braids, a carrot resting atop his head, chunks of rabbit drifting down on his shoulders like so many snowflakes. A strange sound issued forth from her, rusty and harsh, like old hinges that had long fallen into disrepair.

"What was that?" Erêgmorn asked solicitously. "Are you quite well?"

She found the rest of them all regarding her with curiosity, and not a little concern. "I… I think that was a laugh," she said cautiously. "Though I cannot be sure."

"It did not sound much like a laugh," Brethil contemplated. "It sounded more like the death cry of a badger."

Lalaith sighed. "Have you nothing to add?" she asked of the silent Rûmil.

_Could it be?_ he wondered. How was it possible that she could suffer a cruel blow, could participate uncomplainingly on a voyage that would have been cripplingly difficult even in the best time of year, could endure not-so-subtle mockery and treatment that bordered on abuse, and yet develop, against all odds, a sense of humour?

_Well, not as such_, he amended as he stared back at her. Her moment of amusement had fled as quickly as it had come, and the noise she made had sounded more like a bark than a laugh. It was not an **entire** sense of humour as much as the beginning stirrings of one, the germ of what could grow into something more…

She was glaring at him now, and he realized he had not answered her question. The flames snapped and crackled between them, reflecting in her eyes, and time seemed to stretch in a most odd way. Rûmil could almost be convinced that the others simply disappeared, leaving only he and Lalaith. Firelight gilded the smooth curves of cheek and brow, turning her dark hair to bronze, and he blinked to realize that he was very much wishing to kiss her.

Shaking his head, time resumed its normal course. Lalaith stared at him a moment longer until Erêgmorn plucked at her sleeve, wanting her attention, and she turned away. Brethil elbowed him and muttered something, but Rûmil ignored him, standing and striding off toward the horses. He found a curry brush and began to groom the coat of one of the already-gleaming beasts. It was a half-hour before he realized it was Lagor, Lalaith's own mount. The knowledge made him scowl. 

Rûmil did not like this turn of events. He had taken on leadership of this group out of loyalty to his brother, knowing Haldir would want to be sure that Naurë's remedy was coming at all speed. Hadn't he? Taking a comb, he turned his attentions to Lagor's mane. It did not please him to think that Lalaith was becoming more to him than merely the overly-serious granddaughter of his brother's friend. After her mistake with the remedy, he had been sure that Lalaith was nothing but a spoilt child, destined only to make miserable whichever sad fellow she married with her lack of smiles and inability to laugh.

But he had been mistaken, as had Elladan and Elrohir, he thought unhappily, and began on Lagor's tail, combing and then braiding it. They had all been wrong, for she was **not** unable to laugh, it would seem. He wondered what had been the catalyst for the extraordinary event, what extraordinary thought had sparked her amusement. Casting his mind back over the conversation like a fisherman with a net, he simply could not find anything so funny that it would manage to accomplish the impossible. Brethil's badger comment had been more sour than droll, and hardly anything Erêgmorn said was funny, though he thought otherwise.

Lagor turned a great, brown eye on him, as if to say, "You can delay returning to camp no longer, silly elf," and Rûmil sighed. It was foolish to spend so much time contemplating the actions of a female, especially a mortal one. 

Lalaith refused Erêgmorn's offer of help in washing up, making her way carefully down the path the elves had cleared to the shore of the Baranduin. It was slick, and after the first two spills she took, the elves began to ignore the clattering of the metal bowls as they crashed to the ground. Glad she was of the thickness of her skirts and cloak; the extra padding was much appreciated each time she landed on her backside.

She washed the bowls, spoons, and pot as quickly as possible, but even so her hands swiftly became numb with cold from the water. Stacking them, she tried to wrap the cold metal in her cloak, but that made it too tight to walk carefully down the icy path, and down she tumbled once more. 

Grumbling under her breath, she lay on her back a long moment and stared up. It was overcast, the sky thick with low-hanging clouds the colour of charcoal. It snowed but lightly, and Lalaith remembered a time not too long ago with her cousin, Coru. They had lain in the snow with their mouths open, catching snowflakes on their tongues. Coru had laughed at both the pinpricks of cold in his mouth, quickly melted, and the silliness of such actions at their grand 'old' ages of fourteen and sixteen. 

Closing her eyes, she wondered where Coru was that night, if he were aboard his ship, if the rocking of the waves lulled him to sleep. Or perhaps he was in Umbar, land of the Corsairs. He had told her many stories of that hot desert land. Did he sit beneath a palm tree, eating candied dates as a dark-eyed gypsy girl danced for him alone? Lalaith stuck out her tongue to capture a few snowflakes before pushing herself up on her elbows.

Then she gasped, for standing on the path before her, watching silently, was Rûmil. "I heard the crash," he said quietly, explaining his presence, and stooped to pick up the scattered bowls. She watched enviously as he managed to juggle them without apparent effort in one hand, and grasped her elbow in the other, helping her to her feet.

"Thank you," she told him, and tried to move away from him, but his grip, while gentle, was firm and he would not let her go. She frowned. That had been an odd expression on his face, just now… most odd, indeed. Almost as if he didn't hate her. _It means nothing_, she told her heart, which had started beating at an alarming pace.

Once back in camp, she spread out her meagre pallet and lay down, drawing her cloak tightly round before pulling up the woolly blankets. Erêgmorn lay on his back beside her, offering a small smile of goodnight, and she edged just a smidgen closer, hoping to share his heat. It was not long before she slept.

Rûmil took his time packing away the supplies. He had first watch that night, and sat by the fire as the others settled to their rest. His eyes were drawn, over and over, to the hillock of fabric across the fire. He knew Lalaith suffered from the cold, but never had she said a word. Nor did she seem to notice how she seemed to keep gaining blankets, as one elf after another, moved by pity, spread his over her during the night. By the time they reached Eryn Vorn, Rûmil would not be surprised if she would be sleeping cozily beneath no fewer than thirteen blankets while the elves turned blue, huddled only in their cloaks. 

He watched as she shivered and wriggled closer to Erêgmorn, unconsciously seeking his warmth, and a little burst of discontent made itself known to Rûmil, spreading through his chest to lodge somewhere in the region of his stomach. He did not like Lalaith—he did not!—but more than he disliked her, he disliked her proximity to Erêgmorn. The elf was known as one who was fond of the ladies, elven and otherwise, and Rûmil doubted not that Erêgmorn's interest in Lalaith lay not in her heart, but rather a foot or so lower. He sighed and scolded himself for his cynicism. Perhaps he was wrong about Erêgmorn, perhaps he genuinely liked Lalaith, and his kindness to her was only a reflection of that. 

Musing, he lost track of time, and was surprised when Thalion came to relieve him. The oldest of the elves on this journey, he graced Rûmil with one of his sad smiles. "Such deep thoughts for one so young," he commented.

Rûmil found his gaze wandering to Mount Blanket across the camp. "Youth does not guarantee a lack of cares," he replied softly, and crossed to lay on Lalaith's other side.

"Indeed not," Thalion agreed, his deep voice resonant in the darkness. He stretched his legs out before him. "Indeed not."


	12. Chapter 12

The Fall of Night, Part 12

19 January 3019

There is not much time for writing, and my hand shakes so with fatigue that barely can I grip my quill. This time since leaving Sarn Ford has been a misery. Somehow word of our mission have reached Isengard and Saruman, and he set a company of his orcs to beleaguer us. The foul beasts have injured Aras, but I have been able to tend his injury. I thank Eru for the healing abilities of the elves, as I doubt a Man would have been able to survive as he has.

_Rûmil has shown his mettle as leader. His cheer is neither forced nor false and keeps our spirits high. He has complimented me on the neatness of my stitches in closing Aras' wound, and approved when I took myself away from the battle to hide up a tree. _

_Rûmil gave me a single hard look when first I removed a bottle of medicine from my pack, but seems content now to trust me. It surprises me how pleasing it is, to have his trust and friendship, and I rue that I spoke rudely to him in the garden, those many months ago. _

_I have not laughed again since that single time, but then neither have I thought of dumping hot food over Rûmil's head, so perhaps that explains it. There has been little time or inclination for levity, and now I must cleanse Aras' wound again, and dose him with a pain-soother, so I will close this entry._

Eru, help us, and keep Nana and Legolas safe.

Lalaith closed the journal and stuffed it away hurriedly, then made her way to Aras' side. So relieved had she been when they arrived at Great Bend and found this abandoned crofter's hut that she had nearly cried. For at least one night, they would have walls around them, and the elves would be able to take some rest.

Rûmil had not slept since Sarn Ford, she knew, nor had Thalion, and when she glanced up to watch them discuss some matter, she saw weariness etched onto their handsome faces. The elves who now slept did so fully dressed and armed, sitting up with their bows in their hands and quivers on their backs. Aras' injury was because they had not been perfectly prepared; it would not happen again, Rûmil vowed.

Aras was a pleasure to have as a patient, Lalaith thought. Quiet, polite, undemanding. He never flinched when a needle pierced his flesh or strong antiseptic stung his wound. If anything, he seemed perturbed that Lalaith might be upset over causing him pain. He was darker than most elves, his hair more brown than gold, and his eyes though clouded with pain were yet the same lovely topaz as she recalled Legolas'. 

"He is my cousin," Aras told her when she mentioned that elf. "My mother is from Mirkwood."

Lalaith was delighted to have someone with whom she could discuss her friend, and Aras happily told his nurse all manner of embarrassing stories of Legolas' youth. 

"Should you not be sleeping?" asked Rûmil from behind her, but there was no censure in his voice. Aras needed rest if he were to heal quickly, and quickly it must be—traveling with an injured elf while orcs pursued them left them in grave danger. Aras smiled sheepishly, and obediently lay back and closed his eyes. Lalaith raised her hand to brush a strand of hair from his brow, and Rûmil drew in his breath to see how it trembled. 

She turned to look up at him, and he was shocked at the deep hollows under her eyes and the deep grooves etched around her mouth. "You need to rest, as well," he told her, grasping her wrist and tugging her to her feet away from the rickety old bed. 

"But I must stay with Aras, to check on him through the night," she protested, trying to pull free. "What if he becomes feverish?"

"Then Thalion or I will bathe him," Rûmil replied calmly, spreading out her pallet with his free hand.

"But what if his stitches pull free?"

"Then Thalion or I will re-sew him."

"But—" His eyes narrowed dangerously, and Lalaith sighed in defeat. "Fine," she agreed. "I will rest, but only if you agree that if Aras needs anything—at all—you will wake me."

"Of course," Rûmil lied smoothly. "Now to bed with you."

Obediently, she lay down on her side and curled up, pillowing her face on her hand and closing her eyes. Her lashes made dark fans on her cheeks, and despite the shadows beneath them, she looked much like a child. Rûmil found himself smiling down at her as he pulled the blankets to her chin, smoothing them tenderly over her shoulder. "Good night, Lalaith."

"Night, Rûmil," she replied sleepily.

He ignored the sly glance Brethil shot him, as well as the jealous one of Erêgmorn and Thalion's speculative one. _Bunch of old gossips_, he thought sourly as he sat in a corner and busied himself by sharpening his daggers before allowing himself some rest.

He was woken hours later by the pained shout of an orc who'd just received an arrow in the throat. "Get you up, Rûmil," said a calm voice from the window as he automatically reached for his bow, an arrow nocked on its string before his eyes were fully open. 

Thalion was crouched beneath the sill, every so often straightening and firing out the window. A scream of pain followed each shot, no matter that he had no time to aim; Thalion was rightly famed for his archery skill.

Rûmil made his way to the window, and ventured a peek without. "They have torches," he said, his voice low. "Think you they mean to fire the hut?"

Thalion merely nodded, and Rûmil's heart sank even as he made his way to Lalaith. So exhausted was she that she had continued to sleep despite the noise from outside, and he had to shake her shoulder to rouse her. She blinked sleepily, and looked alarmed but not panicked to realize they were under attack, for which he was vastly relieved—an hysterical woman would have sorely tried his patience. 

"Rûmil, you should take her and Aras out the back," Thalion said even as he loosed a double-shot, allowing himself a grim smile at the twin shouts of agony outside. "Get you on horses and make for Eryn Vorn; we will hold them here."

Rûmil stared hard at the older elf, and then nodded. "Ready your patient," he told Lalaith. "And yourself, for we ride within minutes."

Lalaith scurried to pack up the few things she had left out, and bundled Aras up in spite of his protests; it was cruelly cold now, in the midst of the night. 

"I shall not be able to walk, so padded am I," he grumbled, but did not fight her as she wound another blanket round his shoulders. "Ah, this one is mine!" he said fondly, fingering the familiar weave.

"There will be time for a reunion with your blanket later, perhaps when we are not in danger of perishing," Rûmil told him with a grin, and pushed Aras gently out the back door. The door opened into the barn, where were tied all their horses. At the end of the barn was only a small slice of land between the door and the River Baranduin; it would have to be trod carefully, else they would wind up in the water. 

"Can you ride?" Rûmil asked Aras, who drew himself up tall.

"While there is breath in my body," the elf replied, a touch offended, and Rûmil laughed.

"I meant no offense, O Lord of Horses," he told Aras, who relented and smiled as well while he limped over to his horse.

Rûmil fairly threw Lalaith up onto Lagor, then climbed up behind her, reins to his own mount in his hand. She knew he did not trust in her riding skills, and did not blame him—she was a Breewoman, not given to expert horsemanship in spite of her mother's Rohirrim heritage. Still, the feel of his lean body against her back, his arms close around, made her breath come faster in a way that had nothing to do with their danger.

"On three, we shall burst out the door and ride west," Rûmil told Aras. The other nodded. 

And out they went, smashing the door down beneath powerful hooves and flying right between a phalanx of surprised orcs as the remaining elves peppered their enemy with a hail of deadly arrows. Rûmil pushed Lalaith down until she was bent low over Lagor's neck, covering her entirely with his body so she could not be struck at all. 

They rode furiously one mile, then two, until no hoofbeats could be heard behind them. "We have lost them!" Rûmil exulted, straightening from Lalaith and glancing back. 

"Oh, good," replied Aras weakly, and plummeted from his horse.

Rûmil immediately leapt from Lagor and ran to him. Lalaith wheeled the horse around and brought him to a stop beside the elves, nearly falling to the snow in her haste to be with her patient. "Thank Eru the moon is full tonight," she whispered to no one as she yanked away the blankets and his cloak to reveal his wound. High on his leg, the motion of straddling his horse and gripping it with his thighs had made the stitches pull cruelly free, and the long gash was now accompanied by a score of tiny, ragged ones all around it. Blood coursed freely down his leg to pool obscenely on the snow, staining it the bright red of arterial flow.

Lalaith saw Aras was unconscious, and took a deep breath before turning to Rûmil. "He will die unless…"

"Unless?" he prompted, the moon reflecting like a silver coin in his eyes.

"I have a bottle of Nana's tonic with me," she said quickly. "It might help seal the wound, stop the bleeding… if nothing else, it will ease him."

Rûmil nodded slowly, and fetched it from her pack. She made a point of sniffing it, even pouring a little on her finger, showing him she was taking care in determining it was the right potion, and then dribbled a fine stream of it directly into the wound before allowing a trickle down Aras' throat.

"We must bind it closed; the flesh will not bear another stitching," Lalaith told him.

"Poor Aras," Rûmil said, standing. "It appears he will not have a joyful homecoming with his blanket after all." And he used one of his daggers to slice the hapless blanket into strips, then held the injury closed as Lalaith wrapped the cloth round and round the thigh, tying it snugly in a square knot. In spite of having his skin bared to the chill winter air, his flesh was warm and dry.

"The tonic keeps him from becoming chilled," she muttered. "I must write that down."

"You must take some yourself," Rûmil corrected, taking Aras' arm and hoisting the unconscious elf to his feet. "Ever are you shivering."

Lalaith frowned and took Aras' other arm. "I will just wrap myself in another blanket," she firmly replied. "Aras will doubtless have need of the tonic as we continue; I dare not squander it."

"You will squander it if I tell you to," Rûmil informed her, and placed Aras carefully on his horse before mounting behind him, arms locked stiffly to keep the other elf from listing to port or starboard.

Lalaith too mounted. "The only way that tonic will pass my lips is if you tie me down and force it into me," she said flatly. "Are you prepared to do that?"

They stared at each other a long moment. "Not yet," he said at last. "But I reserve the right to change my opinion at a later date." Even at this hour of the night, he could see the roll of her eyes, and could not restrain a grin. 

They rode. At sunrise, when Rûmil was sure the orcs would be snoring in their camps, he found a snug clearing in a copse of trees along the river, and had to nearly hit Lalaith in the head to get her to take some rest. When she awoke a mere hour later, she found Aras awake, if somewhat put out over the sacrifice of his blanket, and his wound mending nicely. She applied more tonic and ate a few mouthfuls of lembas before insisting they continue toward Eryn Vorn. 

Pushing the horses hard, they rode all day, delaying their stop until the very last beams of sun had faded over the horizon and the world around them was glazed in the blue of twilight. 

"There is naught we can do for the horses," Rûmil said, "But as for us, we will sleep in the trees, this night."

And so they did. Aras chose a tall poplar and settled comfortably in the fork of two strong branches, and was swiftly asleep. Rûmil watched Lalaith squirm and wiggle, trying to find comfort in the mighty oak he had deemed appropriate, for ten minutes before giving in to laughter. "Here," he said, and tugged on her hand, making her fall against him. "You will not fall unless I do, and I will not fall."

Exhaustion made her agreeable, and she let him wrap his cloak around them both, resting his chin on her head. He would not sleep that night. 


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Don't know it it were just me, or ff.net itself, but I haven't been able to access it for a few days now, thus the lack of updates. 

I've started a Yahoo group for those of you who want easier and more reliable access to my fic, so as to not need to rely upon fanfiction.net, which is dodgy at best. You can also tell me and anyone else who reads it if you love my writing, hate it, or feel somewhere in between. I'll also be throwing ideas at you, to see if plot bunnies that spawn in my head are worth following up on. 

It's at . Hope to see y'all there!

Thanks to all of you for reading, and those who review, you are priceless jewels! Reviews help me know where my story/characterization/dialogue/continuity is weak, so please, if you see a problem, let me know! I can't guarantee I'll take all suggestions, as my storyline is pretty much set, but if I can improve the tone of certain situations/people/etc. then I most certainly will.

The Fall of Night, Part 13

22 January, 3019

_Finally we are at Eryn Vorn, Rûmil and Aras and I. We arrived last eve, as dusk fell like a shroud over the land. It has been a very strange trip. Rûmil woke me at first light (Aras was already awake). It was very embarrassing to realize where my hand had fallen as I slept, and I pulled back with all haste, but that only made him laugh harder. After I fell out of the tree (Aras joining Rûmil in the laughter) we ate a quick meal of lembas and then rode all day like the very demons of hell were on us. When first we saw the forest of Eryn Vorn spread before us, the citadel rising above its naked branches, my relief was such that I could have cried._

_We have seen no more orcs, thank Eru. Aras has been healing steadily, and was able yesterday to ride alone, which eased Rûmil greatly. His arms were so sore from keeping Aras upright in the saddle that he actually took some of the tonic (but only after I scolded him at length). Aras' wound has closed, and now only bears a livid scar. I dose it with a few drops of tonic several times a day, working it gently into the tissues, and it is already flat and unraised against his skin, and cool to the touch. A few more weeks and there will be no mark at all upon him. _

_Aras seems to find it amusing, the way Rûmil and I argue. I confess I do not mind it overmuch myself—it is not fun, exactly, but neither is it unpleasant. He has great wit, does Rûmil, and crossing words with him can be enjoyable, as is the way his eyes snap and glimmer when he bickers with me. It puzzles me why I find him so appealing, when Legolas, who is inarguably much handsomer (and actually amiable to me, as well) makes me feel naught but sisterly affection. Yet, in spite of all the harsh words between us, Rûmil makes my breath come faster in a way that Legolas cannot. _

_I hope he is well, my Legolas, and safe. I have thought often of him in the past few days, and even more in the last hours since arriving at the Citadel of Minhiriath. My acquaintances among nobility is few—Legolas, Estel, Boromir—but still do I doubt that the conduct of Heleg, king of this realm, is fitting. It would seem that Heleg is a suspicious man, and watches us with great wariness. Wariness, and something else that makes me uneasy indeed when his gaze falls upon me. I know Rûmil sees it as well, and his face is as harsh as stone when Heleg stares at me so. _

_Heleg had wanted to put me in a room by myself, quite close to his own chamber (to honour me, he said) but I insisted that, as a healer, I could not be far from my patient. He did not like that, no, not at all, and while he let Aras stay with me, he had Rûmil confined to a room many floors away. Heleg insists it is not a dungeon. _

It does not shame me to admit that I am frightened. Please, Eru, I am not overly fond of my virtue but would not have it taken from me by force. May the Fellowship be hale, may Nana be healing, and may Rûmil be safe wherever he is exiled in the bowels of this place. I hope the other elves do not come soon, as I fear they too will be put below. 

Lalaith had no sooner wrapped up her journal in her spare dress than there was a knock at the door. "You may enter," she called softly, not wanting to wake Aras, and summoned a faint smile for the woman who came in, arms loaded with a bundle of fabric. Lalaith recognized her as Eitha, who had shown her to this room the night before.

"Heleg King bids me give this to you," Eitha told her, and placed her bundle on the bed. Unrolling it, she revealed an ornate gown of deepest plum, its very full sleeves banded with intricate golden embroidery and pleated hem trailing to a lengthy train.

Lalaith thought her eyes might fall from her head, so much did they bulge at the opulence of it. "Why?" she asked after a long moment of gaping.

"He wishes to see you in it," Eitha said with a shrug. She gazed speculatively over Lalaith's body, making her feel as if she stood there nude.

"You must thank him for his kindness," the words stuck in Lalaith's dry throat, "but I already have clothing to wear. I could not possibly…"

"You can, and will," interrupted Eitha. "Or whatever boon you came to ask will go unfulfilled." Then her face gentled a little. "Sorry I am for your plight, young one. But I have lived here many years, and I can tell you with all confidence that Heleg must be courted and  flattered for every favour." She smoothed her hand down the heavy velvet. "If you refuse to wear this, you will never get what you need from him."

Lalaith agreed reluctantly, and ducked behind a screen with Eitha to help her wriggle into the gown. It was a little snug in the bodice, and the amount of bosom and cleavage that threatened to spill from the top was alarming, but Eitha only grinned and pronounced it perfect. "He will not be able to refuse you, in this."

They stepped from behind the screen to find Aras was awake. Awake, and staring in amazement at Lalaith. Or rather, what was jiggling merrily atop Lalaith's neckline. Agog, he turned his gaze with effort to her face, and declared that she was not to leave the room. Ever, ever again.

Eitha began to laugh while Lalaith sputtered in outrage. "I see elves are possessive of their lemans," she said, sly.

"I am not his leman," Lalaith fumed. "I hardly know him." She turned to Aras. "Why say you such a thing? You give Eitha the wrong idea."

"Tis not for me I forbid your appearance in public wearing such a thing," Aras protested, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his eyes pleading. "But Rûmil… ah, the top of his head will come off should he know you reveal so much of yourself."

"Small is his right to dictate my attire, and little is his influence over my decisions," Lalaith sniffed. Then her shoulders slumped. "You have heard Eitha, I know, Aras. Heleg is our only chance to help my grandmother. If wearing this dress means he will bless the athelas, then wear it I will."

Aras sighed. "You will convince him I at least tried to stop you?"

"This Rûmil sounds like a much more troublesome lover than he is worth," Eitha announced. 

"Whereas a king who extorts small favours with improper gifts is above reproach," Lalaith fired back tartly, earning an admiring glance from Aras. "And Rûmil is not my lover."

"As you say," Eitha said, lifting her hands in placation. "It is time to join Heleg King to break your fast."

But Lalaith did not move. "And Aras? Will someone bring his meal, or should I stuff my sleeves full of food for him?"

"A meal will be brought to him," Eitha assured her. "Now, come, else Heleg grow impatient."

Lalaith followed the woman through a labyrinth of short, wide passageways only dimly lit with oily torches. Surely the destination would be very grand indeed, she thought, if it took such effort to reach it. But the hall, when finally they emerged from the corridor into it, was squat, with flattened arches above. The stone walls were built of different-coloured bricks laid in a herringbone pattern, and some optimistic soul had built a louvered slat-door into the roof, hoping the smoke pouring from the central fireplace would escape.

"Fools," Eitha muttered under her breath, flapping her apron to ward away some of the smoke. "Always do I tell them, never the poplar! Never the poplar! But look you at the ceiling." She pointed. "Do you see the black soot staining it?" Lalaith nodded. "From years of burning poplar." She frowned grimly. "If not for me, this kingdom would fall to wrack and ruin."

"Then glad am I that we have you, Eitha," purred a voice from behind them, and they spun as one to see Heleg, king of Minhiriath, smirking at them. He was just as squat and wide as his home, with grizzled brown hair growing in all directions from his head. Jade-green eyes, disconcertingly beautiful, peered from beneath bushy brows, lit from within by cunning and, Lalaith could see as he perused her velvet-clad form, voracious appetites.

"My lady," he rumbled, "you do this gown great honour by wearing it."

"Your Majesty," she replied, bowing as deeply as she dared with such a low bodice. "You honour me by lending it."

"Lending?" Heleg asked, taking her hand and tucking it firmly into the crook of his elbow. Beneath her fingers, the muscles of his forearm were solid as oak and she knew that she would only be free if he allowed it. "It was no loan, lady, but a gift."

_Oh, Eru_, she thought despairingly. "You will spoil me, Majesty," is what she said, smiling demurely. 

His eyes glimmered at her as he bade her sit beside him at the boards. "Eitha will serve us," he announced, and she could only smile weakly at that irate woman as Eitha slapped food onto two rich plates before setting them with a clatter before her liege and his guest. Lalaith forced herself to eat, though her stomach rebelled, and tried several times to broach the subject of the athelas to Heleg, but he would not hear of it.

"There is no rush, dear lady," he told her, smiling, and she forced herself not to cringe at the amount of crumbs lodging in his beard. "You will have a long visit with us ere we ruin it with talk of serious matters."

Lalaith decided to let it go for then. She would try again at lunch. Surely a few hours would not make the difference between life and death? An image of Naurë thrashing on her bed swam before her vision, hardening her resolve. She **would** ask at lunch, no matter how Heleg demurred. 

She thought she'd never been so happy in her life as when the meal was almost over and she could escape Heleg's pointed innuendo and seemingly-casual touches of her hand and arm. He had stared so at her chest she had been hard-pressed not to drape her napkin over it, and the way he kept licking his lips made her feel distinctly queasy. 

"I would like to see Rûmil," she ventured, taking a reluctant sip of wine. After the silken smoothness of elven wine, this coarse stuff was abrasive to her throat.

"Rûmil…" Heleg repeated, stroking his chin. It was obvious he was pretending not to know the name.

"The other elf who travelled with me," she reminded him from between clenched teeth. "I would like to see him."

He waited a moment, then a moment longer, enjoying her discomfort, before nodding. "Yes. I think that can be arranged." He snapped his fingers in the direction of a guard. "Puio," he commanded, "you will bring the elf, Rûmil, here at once."

Lalaith concentrated on eating and avoiding Heleg's suggestive glances while the guard fetched Rûmil. When the elf appeared, she heaved a sigh of relief so profound that Heleg raised a brow in her direction. "Rûmil," she exclaimed in relief, and crossed to him, taking his hands in hers. "You are well?"

He stared impassively at her neckline before raising his gaze to her face. "I do not recall that dress in your pack as we travelled," he said at last.

Lalaith forced a neutral expression on her face and strove for a cheerful, pleased tone as she replied, "Heleg King was kind enough to give it to me; he was most insistent that I wear it."

Not a muscle moved in Rûmil's face, but something flickered in his blue eyes, an awareness of her tense posture perhaps… Lalaith knew he was aware of her discomfort and fear. "That was indeed kind of him. Aras is well?" 

She nodded. "He heals nicely, but is still weak and needing my care." Her way of telling him, _I am not alone, Aras remains with me_.

"You are satisfied your companion is in one piece?" Heleg's laughter boomed across the hall, bounced off the ribbed arches of the ceiling, echoed off the stone, surrounded them in its cadence. 

Lalaith took comfort from Rûmil's presence, stared into his eyes another long moment, before turning away. "I am, Your Majesty. My thanks."

Heleg gave her a slow, heated smile and she could not prevent a shiver of distaste, but he did not seem to notice, instead motioning for Puio to escort Rûmil back to his room. Rûmil noticed, however, and a tendon leapt in his lean cheek. Lalaith sent him a look of mute pleading, and he allowed himself to be led away. 

Then she turned back to her beaming host, and resigned herself to a long, long day.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: Since I haven't been able to put up a chapter a day like I prefer, here's two in one day to make it up to y'all.

I have a favour to ask… how am I doing in representing a more archaic form of language? A major peeve of mine is people who write a Middle-Earth that sounds like it's populated by valley girls. Makes me queasy. I don't want to make it so old-fashioned that it's affected, or hard to read. Please drop me a review to tell me what you think! 

Or better yet, join my brandy-new yahoo group and tell me there! Easier and more reliable access to my fic, as ff.net's been having brain-farts lately. It's at  . 

The Fall of Night, Part 14

24 January 3019

_Three days have I been in the Citadel, and still I am no closer to Heleg blessing those damnable athelas! I asked him for his help that first day here, but he said we should not discuss business, when there is pleasure to be had. Each day I have tried again, and each day he refuses me with an airy wave of the hand. I do not wish to press the matter, earning his annoyance, but I am growing very uneasy._

_The man ogles me so blatantly that at meals I must stifle the urge to stab him with my fork. Today at lunch I thought of how he would look with it stuck between his eyes, and found myself laughing again! The sound is most unpleasant, and at first Puio thought a cat was choking up a hairball, but I turned it into a cough and made it back to my room before any suspected something amiss._

_Aras is quite worried about me. He knows how difficult it is for me to wear the gowns that Heleg has been lavishing upon me (a new one every day, and each more luxurious and revealing than the next), how hard to endure the king's unwelcome attentions, and now that I have laughed again, I feel very sure he fears for my sanity. _

_To be honest, so do I. I find myself worrying all the day, about Rûmil in his dungeon-that-is-not, about Nana, about the Fellowship, about Aras' being taken from me if any discover he is almost completely well and not really needing my close attention. And most of all, I worry about Heleg. His gaze becomes hungrier for me each time he sees me, and I grow to fear the long walks he insists we take on the ramparts after dinner. Puio comes with us, but stands well behind, and I doubt he would lift a hand to stop his liege should Heleg try to force himself on me._

_I see Rûmil each day as the first, for the merest moment and briefest word. He seems well, but an anger grows daily in him. If Heleg should make any attempts on me, I believe Rûmil would become enraged. Nana has told me of Haldir's prowess at battle; I do not think his brother any less proficient when roused. _

And so I hope that Rûmil remains calm, that I stop laughing when I ought not, no one notices Aras' return to health, and that Thalion and Brethil and the others are both safe and smart enough not to approach the Citadel. I feel quite sure that Heleg will have them confined as well… he continues to suggest that Aras is well enough to join Rûmil. 

Lalaith's hands trembled, so nervous was she, but she hid them in her skirts and forced herself to stride, head proudly aloft, to the other end of the hall where Heleg awaited her, his gaze predatory. Today, she wore a gown of ruby-red velvet, and she would have been most pleased with it were the V of the bodice marginally less plunging. As it was, she feared to breathe too deeply, else her breasts would push even more from the neckline. 

If that weren't bad enough, there was a girdle of beaten silver Eitha had insisted on clasping low around Lalaith's hips. The trailing end of it fell to exactly between her legs, and with each step, it swayed and bumped gently against her pubis. Seeing how the eyes of every male in the room were drawn considerably further south than her face, she was hard-pressed to keep from rolling her eyes. Really, men were so susceptible.

"My lady Lalaith," Heleg drawled. "Come, sit ye by my side, and drink of this wine." He motioned to a figured-gold chalice. "It is the finest in my cellar."

Lalaith thought of Rûmil, also in the cellar, and had to work hard to keep from scowling. Fisting her hands in the rich fabric, she refused the chair Heleg pulled out for her. "I thank you, Your Majesty," she began, "but I must refuse to join this meal until I broach with you the urgency of my grandmother's need for these herbs."

Heleg frowned; it was not a frown of mere annoyance or slight displeasure. No, it was the frown of a spoilt monarch whose careful plans of seduction had gone awry. His glance flicked once more at the chalice and Lalaith wondered at his interest in it. I shall not drink that, she vowed to herself.

At length, he sat heavily in his ornately carved chair, slouching against the back and looking rather more like a sulky adolescent than Lalaith imagined he'd like. "Very well," he said grudgingly, a faint growl in his voice, and she noted that it would be a grave mistake for her to think of him as a child. In spite of his middle age, he was a strong man, and had the backing of scores of soldiers and faithful subjects, besides. She offered a brief, silent plea to Eru for wisdom in choosing her words. Having only decided that morning after being refused yet again a discussion about the athelas, it had become clear to Lalaith that more drastic measures would be needed.

 "Your Majesty," she began. "As you know, my grandmother is quite ill. The ingredient we believe will help her is athelas that have blessed by a true king. Thranduil of Mirkwood was closer to Rivendell, and would have made for an easier journey, but much have I heard of Heleg and his Minhiriath, and long have I wanted to see with my own eyes your wondrous realm." A bit of flattery would not be amiss, she thought, and felt a little faint at the softening of Heleg's craggy face at her words.

"You have been an exemplary host; even the elves would be troubled to compete with your kindness, generosity, and hospitality," Lalaith lied. She must not lay on her compliments too thick, else like bread with too much butter, they would be inedible. "But I fear we must cut short our stay here in your Citadel and return to Rivendell, to my grandmother's sickbed, and have her be healed."

Alas, Lalaith wailed in her head when Heleg frowned even deeper and began drumming angrily with his fingertips on the lion's heads carved into the arms of his chair. "Your assistance in this matter will create a bond of goodwill and amity between your people and the elves of Rivendell," she mentioned, hoping the prospect of trade would seduce Heleg, who seemed as greedy as any other monarch. 

There was a clatter behind her, and she turned to see Puio lead Rûmil in for his daily appearance before Lalaith. His eyes, when they alighted upon her form, darkened immediately to black, and she thought he must be very angry indeed, but as Heleg was looking contemplative instead of hostile, did not spare the elf more than a concerned look before turning back to attend the king's next words.

"I am tired of hearing about elves," Heleg declared, and the court sniggered at his insult to he who had just entered the room. "Have you no kin of your own that might be grateful to me?" And here he positively leered at her in a way that made her glance worriedly down her front.

Sure enough, the deep décolletage was gaping a bit, and from his position on the raised dais before her, there was little hidden from him. She pinched great wads of her skirt between her fingers to keep from covering her exposed flesh, or reaching out to claw his eyes out, and closed her eyes for a brief moment, willing herself patience and strength.

"Aside from my grandmother and Coru, I am alone in the world," Lalaith replied at last, hoping her status as orphan might pluck at whatever shriveled heartstrings the king might yet harbour.

Heleg's remarkable eyes widened considerably, and she wondered what she had said to startle him so. "Coru?" he demanded, coming around the table to stare hard at her. He was but an inch or two taller than she, and his unnerving gaze peered right at her. It felt like it was boring **through** her. "Coru of Bree?"

Mystified, she nodded slowly. "Yes, Coru of Bree," she affirmed. 

"What is he to you?" Heleg questioned briskly. "How do you know him? How close is your relationship? His face, which Lalaith was accustomed to seeing in varying degrees of lust, drunkenness, hunger, sloth, and greed, now took on a distinctly nervous set. But why would he be afraid of Coru? True, he was a sailor, and they were known to be rough, especially those who travelled as often to Umbar as did Coru, but surely simply being a sailor did not mean one was also a pirate. Unless…

A realization fell into her mind, like the last piece of a puzzle, and Lalaith nearly slapped herself in the forehead in the universal sign of "I am an idiot". It was all perfectly clear, if one was not a naïve fool who never paid attention to anything but her own petty problems, Lalaith thought sourly.

Coru… sailing… Corsairs… her cousin **was** a pirate! And judging by Heleg's reaction, a rather fierce and fearsome one. Restraining her disgust at her own obliviousness and the urge to crow in delight and triumph, she forced herself to look demurely at the ground as she replied, "Coru of Bree… he is my betrothed." Feeling mischievous, she was compelled to add unnecessarily, "We are very much in love."

Heleg slowly began to turn an unappealing shade of green. As for Rûmil… he snapped his head around to stare at her, so quickly she wondered if he had injured his neck. "Does… does he know you are here?" Heleg croaked.

"But, of course," she replied serenely. "He was the one who suggested I come here, instead of to Thranduil. He is aboardship with…friends…" she lingered over that last words, as if delicately avoiding the mention of brigands in mixed company, drawing attention to it, "but he expects me to have returned to Bree when next he comes home. If I am not there," she continued, eyes lifted to his, making sure to widen them guilelessly, "he will become most worried and… displeased."

Heleg swallowed hard once, twice, before compressing his lips. Fear and anxiety writhed over his face before he made a concerted, obvious effort to control himself. "Where are the athelas?" he asked.

Lalaith reached then into her bodice and removed the small bag of herbs, warmed from her body. Heleg swallowed yet again, hand a-tremble as he reached for it. She felt her mouth stretching at each corner, and realized she was smiling. Extraordinary, she thought, and handed the bundle over.

As Heleg bent his head over the athelas and muttered a blessing, she became very aware of Rûmil beside her. She hazarded a glance his way; he was watching her with an expression of utterly poleaxed astonishment, and she felt great joy at having been able to flummox him so. Had it been her blatant dishonesty about Coru that had him so amazed? The hiding-place she'd chosen for the athelas? 

Or perhaps it was the wicked grin she'd flashed at Heleg… she had to admit, it had surprised her as well, but how could one **not** grin when a horrid old lecher was brought low and made to squirm? It seemed perfectly obvious to her, and then she was caught up in wonderment… so, this was humour, she thought, somewhat disconcerted. No surprise, then, that Nana had never been able to explain why something was funny. "It just is," Naurë had declared, shrugging helplessly.

Her attention was drawn back to the king when he declared the athelas as blessed as he could make them, and thrust the bag back at her. "You are doubtless eager to return to Bree," Heleg said. "Best that you find your beds now, so you can make an early start on the morrow." He could not be more clear in his eviction of the three from his realm.

Lalaith curtseyed deeply, placing her hand over her cleavage in a way that looked more artful than modest, and reached out to tug on Rûmil's tunic. Grudgingly, he sketched a bow, and then snatched up her hand to lead her from the hall, Puio followed close behind, watching suspiciously.

"Be you up at first light," was all he had time to tell her before Puio led him away. Lalaith nodded and made her way back to her chamber with a considerably lightened heart. 

Aras was delighted to have achieved their goal, and even more delighted to learn they would be taking their leave of "this accursed place" as he called it. He was quite out of sorts at being confined to a single room for days upon end. "I shall sleep right away," he declared, and lay down immediately, eager for dawn and departure.

But sleep was not to be theirs. "Rouse!" hissed a voice in Lalaith's ear, and she blinked groggily in the darkness to find Eitha's face bent over her. 

"What is it?" she murmured sleepily and sitting up, glancing across the room at Aras, who watched with raised brow, waiting for the Minhiriath woman to explain herself.

"Heleg has changed his mind about letting you go," Eitha explained, her voice low and weary. "He thinks to take his chances against Coru."

"Oh, Eru," Lalaith moaned, and fell back onto the bed, draping her arm over her eyes. "What do we do now?"

"We get you up and dressed, and waiting at the Citadel gates for the other elves to take you away," Eitha replied sensibly, already stuffing things into traveling packs. "Even now, Puio is readying your Rûmil to leave as well."

"He is not my Rûmil," Lalaith grumbled, but got out of bed and stumbled over to her clothes, not caring in the least if Aras saw her ungarbed as she pulled the nightdress over her head and reached for her shift. "Why do you and Puio help us?"

"As great as our fear of Heleg, greater still is our fear of the Corsicans," the woman replied, face taut with apprehension. "We would not see our homes and families destroyed because of Heleg's imprudent lust."

"A wise decision," Aras murmured. He had respectfully averted his eyes as Lalaith dressed, and stood waiting by the door, eager to leave. Finally all bundled up, Lalaith stood ready. 

"Keep you close," Eitha advised. "We meet Puio and Rûmil at the gates with your horses." Lalaith gripped the woman's hand in her own, and kept a bit of Aras' cloak between her fingers, as she had not Eitha's familiarity with the corridors nor his keen elven sight to help her avoid collision. The descent from the lofty towers of the Citadel to the ground seemed to take an eternity, but eventually cold, crisp air filled Lalaith's lungs and then there was naught but starlight above, and Rûmil standing before.

"I have arranged for the guards to be… indisposed," Puio said, amused, and gestured toward the snoring heaps on either side of the wide-open gates. 

"They are drunk?" Rûmil queried.

Puio shrugged. "Or something. I merely gave them whatever it was that Heleg intended for the lady." Rûmil scowled; and Lalaith bowed her head in comprehension: Heleg had indeed meant to drug her that day. "Walk the horses until you round the bend," Puio continued, handing over a large sack of food. "Your people should await you there; I bid them not to stir from that place until I gave word."

"You have been conversing all these days with the other elves?" Lalaith asked curiously.

"Of course," Eitha replied. "How do you think it is that they have not come for you?"

"I had not thought of it," she admitted. "Thank you for your help, I hope it does not go badly for you." She surprised the woman with a quick hug, and squeezed Puio's callused hand warmly. Rûmil and Aras nodded their thanks in typically restrained elven style, and they began to walk. No sooner had they left the courtyard, however, than shouts sounded behind them.

"Stop them!" cried Heleg's voice, and sleepy men tumbled from the barracks, hurried clambering into a bit of armour before taking up arms against their fleeing prisoners. Eitha and Puio melted from view, and Rûmil flung Lalaith onto Lagor before vaulting up behind her. Aras had taken up Rûmil's horse's reins and was already riding pell-mell toward the river's bend. Rûmil slapped Lagor's flanks with the reins, spurring him with urgent whispers to fly, fly.

And fly he did, the valiant beast. His long legs ate up the distance, putting the Citadel of Minhiriath far behind them. The thud of arrows, hastily loosed toward their departing quarry, faded away. 

"Think you they will follow?" Aras shouted from beside them.

"I do not know," Rûmil admitted. "They will have to saddle their horses, losing much time; and they cannot see as we can, nor can they recover from their fatigue, being woken from sleep. They would have to be fools to pursue us, but Heleg has not impressed me with his wisdom." He fell quiet a moment, thinking. "Still, we will not stop or slow."

And so they rode, one hour, two. Lalaith finally relaxed enough to stop looking behind them every few minutes, even though Rûmil laughed at her. "Think you can see anything in this ink?" he teased, looking lighter-hearted than she had seen him since arriving at Eryn Vorn, and she found herself smiling up at him. It felt wobbly and uncertain, but at that moment she was so happy—happy to be away from Heleg, happy to have the athelas, happy he was free of his cell, happy all three were safe, that she could do nothing else.

Rûmil's smile, however, faded. "You will have to tell me what has been happening these past days," he told her soberly. "For there has been a great change in you."

She blinked. "Not a bad one, I hope?"

"I do not know, yet," he said. "It is a matter I will have to explore."

"Ah," Lalaith replied sagely, twisting in his arms to face him. "An investigation." Her gaze was clear and calm, her eyes huge and glimmering with starlight. "Know you that I am of a scientific bent, and would give every assistance in unearthing this great mystery?"

Now it was his turn to blink. "Was that a joke?" he asked at last, staring at her in amazement.

She considered it a moment. "Maybe!" she said thoughtfully, then frowned. "Was it funny?"

"Aras seems to think so," Rûmil said, a little sour, for that other elf was laughing so hard he was nearly falling off his horse. "Be quiet, you Rivendell idiot."

But Aras only laughed harder. 


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: the poetry enclosed in this chapter is by Pablo Neruda, because my poetry sucks and his does not. 

Join my yahoo group! It's at groups dot yahoo dot com slash group slash cinnamongrrl (you have to exchange actual dots and slashes where I wrote out the words, as ff.net seems to not want to allow links).

To those who've reviewed as per my request about the language: Thank you SO SO SO much! I have a degree in medieval studies so I was worried about hitting the proper balance between modern and archaic English. If I really wanted to punish both myself and my readers, I could write this whole damned thing in Chaucerian English, but then no one would know what the hell I was saying, kinda defeating the entire purpose of it.

But it mighte to causen the yees to achen, and myne readeres be of the fineste calibre a scribnere myght wisshe, soe I will foregoe any pretendytions to fayre Jeffroi's stylinginges. Not weird enough for ya? I can always do it in Latin Vulgate or, even better, Old French. On voudrait-le meilleur, peut-estre? (taking a bow) Yes, ladies and gents, here then is the evidence of a truly useless education. 

And now, my next task: How's the humour? Too heavy-handed, just right? I know it's been more serious the last few chapters without Naurë slicing-n-dicing with her wit. What if it's actually not that funny at all, and I'm the only one giggling like a loony at the stuff I'm typing? Please tell me if I'm not funny! 

The Fall of Night,  Part 15

4 February 3019

Lalaith is so completely obsessed with tending Rûmil that she would not notice if I were to dance on the table wearing naught but my quiver and a smile, so I know she will not notice that I have pilfered this journal from her pack and now sit in plain sight of her, scribing away like a lord. The grand flourishes which I append to the words even now cause the others to laugh, but will she notice? 

No, she will not. Because she is feeding him soup. A great lot of soup, from a big cracked earthen bowl. The spoon itself is dented and quite disreputable, and Rûmil keeps trying to squirm away from it, but she chases his mouth expertly—she must have some experience forcing porridge into reluctant children. When the bowl is finally empty, Rûmil breathes a premature sigh of relief. I say 'premature' because Lalaith turns from him with the bowl, only to return with it brimming-full of more watery gruel.

The look on his face is such as will sustain me many a long, dark day in the future. Whenever I be sad, lonely, injured, or angry, I have only to remember Rûmil and his soup, and loudly shall I laugh. Mostly because I am heartily glad that it is he who suffers, and not me. Lalaith is a most formidable nurse, and I doubt I would be able to mount much of an offensive against her. She, of course, insists that the only reason she has not once left his side in four days is because of all the gratitude she bears him. 

_To which I say, hah. _

_One does not need to be a two thousand year old elf to comprehend the actions of a woman in love (but certainly, it helps). Even if she did not flutter around him like a concerned hen with an injured chick, we would know of her love for him. It was perfectly evident to us, you see, as she went quite mad when he was injured. Of course, he went just as mad when the orcs captured her, so it is equal between them, I think._

_We others had been suspecting something between Rûmil and Lalaith for a while… since their daring escape from the skirmish at the hut at the Great Bend, certainly. And their behaviour once they joined us once more merely served to cement our suspicions, for they were at the same time both carefully aloof and very familiar and comfortable with each other. Small gestures, quickly shared glances, the odd sigh here and there. We lot have not existed for millennia only to be rendered thoroughly stupid when in the presence of two people determined to pretend they feel nothing for each other._

_It was only a matter of time before one or the other would do something that laid plain their feelings, and since Rûmil is, after all, an elf, I felt it would be Lalaith. I was wrong. Elbereth, I could not have been more wrong._

_Rûmil decided that it was imprudent to retrace our steps along the Baranduin back to Bree, as that loutish king of Minhiriath would expect that, and so we made our way due east across the Plains of Cardalon, heading for Tharbad and __Nîn-in-Eilph. This would, of course, bring us somewhat closer to Isengard, from whence came the orcs that have plagued us that last week, but he felt that since we could kill orcs easily, but not humans, best we should take the chance._

_All went well until four days ago. We had met various smaller bands of orcs, and defeated them without incident. Aras is completely recovered now, and threw himself with vigor into the fighting, a joy to see. We had taken to traveling from the moment of sun's rise until the moment of its setting, trying to go as far as we could, and then securing ourselves as best we might on that desolate, snow-covered grassland. _

_It was just a matter of time before a larger contingent of orcs attacked, and attack they did. They thought to overtake us while we slept, but Elrond chose wisely when he selected the elves for this journey—there are none of us fools, and we were not surprised. Valiantly we fought, and swift, but for every beast we slew it seemed there were two to take its place. _

_I began to fear for our ability to keep Lalaith safe, and I was not the only one—Rûmil's face was anxious, which is extraordinary. In the centuries I have known him, never before has it displayed that darker emotion. And yet, every time his harried glance fell upon her figure as she shrank back in terror, eyes darting in alarm at the carnage around her, his fear for her was as plain as if he'd shouted it from a treetop._

_Erêgmorn fought before Lalaith, and Aglar too-- one on each side of her, they exhausted their arrows before drawing daggers on their enemy, and soon the ground was piled with stinking corpses. I myself was back-to-back with Thalion, and Aras fought beside Rûmil himself. A deep groan of pain alerted us that one of our number had been injured, and we each followed the sound to its source: Aglar had received a wound in his shoulder, yet he fought on. _

_Rûmil was worried, however, and began to move his way toward them to add his might to that of Aglar and Erêgmorn. Too late he was, and Aglar was shoved out of the path to the orc's quarry. Grasping Lalaith's arm with brutal strength, the orc hauled her over the prone Aglar and dragged her into the midst of their malodorous ranks._

_Rûmil gave a cry unlike any I have heard, and in a gesture of what I can only term breathtaking foolhardiness, charged lone against them. For a full minute he was wrath incarnate. Never have I seen a single elf commit such mayhem— within seconds, he had felled two orcs and was grimly, single-mindedly cutting his way through their number to get to Lalaith. Covered in blood and offal, his fair hair streaming with it, he was almost close enough to take her hand and pull her to safety when yet another of the foul beasts slipped behind him and sent his crude weapon arcing toward Rûmil's unprotected back._

_His cry of anguish was matched only by Lalaith's scream, of fury or fear I know not, but I can still hear it—shrill and terrible, the sound of a soul in torment. Rûmil fell right away to the ground, Lalaith dropping to his side as well, and the rest of us left off our individual battles and rallied round our captain, Thalion in particular laying waste to the enemy. And then suddenly there was another weapon raised to our cause. _

Lalaith had taken up Rûmil's daggers from his limp hands and was now wielding them with the frenzy of a true berserker. Unpracticed, clumsy, nevertheless she spotted the orc who had injured Rûmil and went about carving him into sections a butcher might have admired. Elves prize silken movement and practiced efficiency, but there is something indeed to be said for the inelegant passion of sheer rage. She was truly an unnerving sight.

_Most frightening of all, she did it all with a smile on her blood- and tear-streaked face._

_Undoubtedly, we would have prevailed in the end, but with Lalaith in her state of dementia it went much quicker than we expected, thanks more to the fright she caused the orcs than any actual fighting skill. When the last orc lay crumpled on the ground, the manic light left her eyes and she once more became the Lalaith we knew of old, and dropped the muck-laden daggers, falling to her knees at Rûmil's side. With a tenderness that brought a suspicious moisture to even Thalion's ancient and jaded eyes, she ascertained Rûmil still lived, and then set about ordering us what to do in a way that could make Elrond weep in jealousy, so officious was she. _

_We constructed a travois and bore him across the snowy plain with greatest haste, stopping neither to rest nor eat for almost two days. Lalaith dosed his injury liberally with the tonic she carried in a stout brown-glass flask in her pack, and the worried scrutiny she gives its dwindling contents tells me that there might not be enough to heal Rûmil completely._

_When finally we arrived at Tharbad, Erêgmorn was sent to procure rooms for us at the sole inn. Rûmil was carried to one of these rooms, and Lalaith shut the door in our faces, saying she alone would tend him. We did not like to hear that, but the look on her face brooked no argument, so we indulged in the hot water brought for us to bathe, and then ate well for the first time since leaving Eryn Vorn. _

_She came out of the room hours later, swaying on her feet from exhaustion, and announced that while Rûmil was grievously injured, she believed he would survive. She had little of the tonic left however, and wondered how fared Aglar—would he need some, too? _

_Aglar was indeed wounded, and the tonic would have served him well, but Thalion spoke for all of us when he declared Aglar quite well enough to do without the tonic. Lalaith's relief was palpable; now there would be more for Rûmil. I entreated her to rest, to eat, but she would not. Finally I called for Aras, knowing him to be familiar with Lalaith after sharing a room with her at the Citadel, and sent him inside the room with a bowl of hot water and a soapy cloth. _

_When he exited some time later, he looked weary but announced she was clean whether she wanted to be or not. I do not know how he managed to scrub her, and do not think I want to, either. Rûmil slept for an entire day, and when he finally awoke his first word was, "Lalaith?" She took up his hand, clasping it to her, and promptly burst into tears. He has been awake now a full day, sleeping often (although I believe he pretends, if only to escape the soup). Both pretend that nothing extraordinary has happened; in fact, neither can meet the other's eyes. _

_I suppose now is as good a time as any to mention how the rest of us feel about it. Thalion is scandalized at the notion of an elf being in love with a human, though he is far too dignified to speak his disdain aloud. Aras is genuinely concerned for them both, as it is evident that nothing good can come of it. Aglar could not possibly care less, as he is more concerned with his own healing, but even were he in perfect health I suspect it would not matter to him—he is ever a practical elf._

_Erêgmorn is slightly put out, as I think he had designs of his own on pretty Lalaith (though somewhat more nefarious, I fear). Even I, Brethil, will admit that for a human, she is not distressing in appearance—though her face is plain compared to elven females, her hair too dark and eyes holding none of the starlight of the Eldar, and her figure neither as tall nor as graceful, there is a pleasing sense of resiliency and intelligence in her, and a warmth and caring in her eyes, that solves the mystery of Rûmil's attraction for her. _

_As for the rest, they care not; their sole concern is doing their duty in returning Lalaith and the all-important athelas to Rivendell in one piece. And what of me? Well, I cannot say that I think it a good idea, exactly, but I will admit there is something thrilling about falling in love with someone so incredibly unsuitable. _

_Doomed love is so tragic, and yet so pure… knowing that there is no future for them, and being unable to prevent the stirring of their hearts for the other. It is both altruistic, for there is nothing to be gained from it, and masochistic, for it is clear and obvious that only pain will be the outcome. Few choose a love like this; certainly, no one sane. I can only hope they will make the wisest possible choices in the coming days._

_I will end my entry in this journal with a poem, hoping that my own sentiments for my beloved Melui might inspire dear Lalaith to be strong, and know that love is worthy of sacrifice. _

I did not know what to say,

my mouth had no way with names.  
My eyes were blind,  
and something started in my soul…  
And I, drunk with the great starry void,  
I felt myself a pure part of the abyss.  
I wheeled with the stars,  
my heart broke free on the open sky.

_Entry made by Brethil Alagion of Rivendell on a boring night._

_Please do not hit me, Lalaith. I hope you like the poem._

_Do not worry so about Rûmil, many times have I tried to kill him and ever have I failed._

He will outlive us all.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note: C'mon down and join my new yahoo group, available at groups dot yahoo dot com slash group slash cinnamongrrl. Deepest apologies for the retarded appearance of the URL, you have ff.net to thank for it. I will be updating there before on ff.net, and it's more dependable too. And the formatting is exactly as I wish it to be, no more buggering about with ff.net's dodgy uploading. Come express your opinion of my fic, and suggest other good stories! Come vote in the polls! They're funny. Really. 

In other news: Had me another momentous occasion of enlightenment, or _satori_ as we Buddhists call it. Why am I telling you this, you ask? Well, dear readers, because it was a satori about writing a sequel to **The Fall of Night**. Yes, friends, this fic will be ending in a few more chapters, but the story will continue. I'm even considering a third part, but I think I'll wait until the sequel's done to see if it'll work.

And in conclusion: 10 points to whoever spots the word that Spike, aka William the Bloody, was so fond of before he became a vampire.

The Fall of Night, Part 16

Contrary to Brethil's belief, Lalaith was completely aware of his abduction of her journal. She just didn't care. She was also aware of Rûmil's reluctance to drink the wretched soup, though she did not realize that he did so for the same reason she kept spooning it into him—it was the only valid way she could think of to remain so close to his side. 

There was little she remembered of that night, that battle. She remembered noise, and moonlight glinting off bloodied weapons, and terror when the orcs had tried to take her. She remembered Rûmil's face, so determined, so angry, as he fought his way to her, and her complete confidence that he would rescue her. There had never been a moment's doubt. But neither had she suspected he would be hurt. And never in her life had she thought she would take up arms, let alone wield them with such passion, but clearly could she recall the feel of the dagger-hilts in her hands, hear the whistle of the wind as she sliced them through air, and flesh, and bone. 

She had killed for him.

Though it was true it had only been an orc, still, it had had life, and that life she had taken. And she could not even pretend it was in self-defense, as her actions had been motivated entirely by revenge. Another memory assailed her, the knowledge that the moment her hands had touched Rûmil's daggers, a single line repeated in her head: "It will pay. It will pay."

Part of her was deeply satisfied that she had avenged Rûmil's injury, but the other part of her, the larger part, was shocked and appalled that she had killed something, and with such great relish, as well. Ever since Nana had come to live with Lalaith and her father, she had taught her granddaughter to revere life, to treat it as a precious gift that could not be easily given, so it should not be easily taken. 

_Yet another way I shall fail her_, she thought sadly, unaware her hands had fallen into her lap and that she stared at a pull in the blanket across Rûmil's chest, until the spoon was removed from her fingers and a cool hand clasped hers. She looked up and found Rûmil watching her, concern on his face.

"What pains you?" he asked quietly.

To her disgust, tears filled her eyes, the horror and fright of the past few days overwhelming her all at once. She tried to cover her face with her hands, to hide her shame, but he would not let go of her and she ended up sobbing against his hand, her tears wetting his skin. Over her head, he indicated with a nod of his head that the others should leave them. When they were at last alone, he tugged on her hand so he could see her face.

"Lalaith, tell me," he urged. The sound of her weeping created in him a maelstrom of anger, of fear, of pain, of sorrow. He thought he might be willing to do anything, if only she would stop. "Please, tell me."

"I have killed for you," she gasped at last, sitting back and forcibly retrieving her hand from his firm grasp. She scrubbed at her face, eyes red from salt. 

Rûmil nodded. "And grateful I am to you for it."

She sniffed and wished she'd a handkerchief. "No, you don't understand," she tried again. "I have **killed**. For **you**." He nodded again, but it was clear he didn't understand. Lalaith sighed. "I have never killed anything in my life," she explained, watching his dawning comprehension. "Ever have I striven to protect life, guard it, heal and restore it. And yet, my need to avenge your pain was so great it overcame every lesson and inclination of peace I have ever had."

She stood and placed the forgotten bowl on a rickety table before going to stare out the grimy window. Across the Gwathlò River she could see the marshy ponds of Nîn-in-Eilph, the swans that were the famous inhabitants of that area absent from the snowy hillocks covering the meadows.

"I am overcome," Lalaith whispered at last. "I thought I had talked myself out of it, that your harshness to me had killed it, that this journey would reveal to me your true nature. I was right only about the last." She drew a fingertip through the grey film of dirt on the windowpane. "I am overcome," she repeated. "I cannot pretend any longer."

She turned to face him again, determination writ clearly on her countenance, mixed with a bit of trepidation and something else… something else that made him nervous and elated at the same time. "I love you," Lalaith said at last, her voice as caressing as her gaze as it moved tenderly over him. "I have loved you from the moment I saw you."

He said nothing for a long time, merely looked at her, and she began to feel uncomfortable. Lalaith had not expected a declaration in return, but this prolonged silence… ashamed, she turned to leave.

"Do not go," Rûmil said at last, catching her hand in his, pulling her to sit beside him on the bed. Still he said nothing; his blue eyes, dark as a twilight sky, flicked over her face, her hands, her hair, every part of her. Finally, he spoke.

"You must understand what love means to an elf, Lalaith." His gaze met hers, soft and effulgent. "It is not something we speak of lightly, nor something we enter into easily. It is something, once started, that does not end, even past our death." He took a deep breath. "Most of us avoid friendships and love with humans because of this. Not only are mortals short-lived, but in their immaturity they are often fickle as well… love for them can fade and wither after a few years, and the elf they scorn left languishing, their devotion unrequited."

She made to speak, but he silenced her with a finger across her lips before moving his hand to cup her cheek. Lalaith leant herself into his touch, unable to resist the temptation, and gloried in the feel of his warm palm on her skin.

"You know of Arwen's sacrifice for Estel; she sacrifices immortality to be with him. She is choosing death over life to share a too-brief moment of time with him. This is her joy, and her sorrow." He gazed deeply into her eyes, into her soul. "There is no such choice for me to make, do you understand this?" She nodded slowly.

"I am not sure what love feels like, Lalaith," Rûmil continued, and slid his hand down over her jaw, caressing the velvety earlobe en route to column of neck and slope of shoulder before descending down her arm to her hand. This he clasped tightly, wrapping her small hand in his large one, surrounding it with his. "If you know what love is because of what you would sacrifice for it, then… I believe I love you as well, because just as you have killed for me, sacrificing a precious belief, I—" his voice, usually so smooth and mellifluous, turned rough, and broke. He cleared his throat.

"My life is the most precious thing I possess, and yet I would give it up in a moment for you. I nearly did, when those orcs attacked us." He smiled when he saw how stunned she was, at the sight of tremulous hope dawning in her eyes, and thought that never had he seen such a lovely shade of green before, so soothing and fresh. "I would die for you, Lalaith. And I think that means that I love you."

She reached out then, hand trembling just a little, to cup his cheek as he had hers. "I would greatly prefer that you live for me, Rûmil." And she leant over to place her lips on his. The touch, so light, so tentative, nevertheless sent a flash of fire through them both, and it was not long before he had pulled her across him and threaded his fingers in her dark curls, fastening her snugly against him to prevent escape in the unlikely occasion that she would want to.

Lalaith believed she had gone mad, or this was some sort of insane fever dream, for never had she thought that Rûmil would react with anything but laughter or, perhaps, scorn to her declaration. But his hands in her hair, on her skin… his mouth slanting over hers, his tongue spearing between her lips to taste her, and share his taste with her… oh, surely this was a dream?

He pulled away at last, smiling at her dazed expression. "It is **not** a dream," he said, and she realized she'd spoken aloud. His thumb brushed over the fullness of her lower lip, and his eyes darkened when she darted her tongue out to moisten it, and flicked against him. With a groan, he pulled her to him again, and kissed her fiercely. 

In spite of her proximity to Rûmil, it wasn't enough… she needed to surround him, to wrap herself around him… only then would they be close enough to suit her. Not knowing entirely what she was doing, she tried to put arms and legs around his body, pressing herself as close as she could.

Growling low in his throat, Rûmil took a deep breath and pushed her gently away. "None of that, _meril nîn_," he told her. "The others will be back soon… they will be suspicious of the silence." He grinned saucily at her. Trying hard, she offered him a wobbly smile of her own. "You are even prettier when you smile, as I knew you would be." Her smile this time was genuine, and wider, and he squeezed her hands in his own, feeling their delicate bones under her skin. So fragile was this woman, so easily broken, and he wanted only to keep her safe, and bring that smile to her face every day.

The door opened, and the others entered. Brethil took one look at the elf and the woman, and turned to his companions. "I win!" he exulted, and the others frowned and grumbled, fumbling in their pockets to pay their lost wager.

"What exactly were you betting on?" Rûmil enquired mildly as Lalaith, embarrassed, pulled away and tried to pat her skirts and hair into some semblance of order. 

"Oh, just what the scene would be when we came back!" Brethil replied airily. "I wagered that you would be holding hands and grinning goofily at each other. Erêgmorn said you would be finishing up a wild bout of lovemaking, but ever is he thinking with his pintle." Lalaith's cheeks turned faintly pink at this statement; Erêgmorn looked no less uncomfortable at the revelation. "We were only gone for a few minutes, Erêgmorn," Brethil scolded. "Are **you** always so hasty?" He shook his head in mock despair. "Your poor partners."

He continued on, blithely ignoring the looks of death Eregmorn was sending his way. "Aras, the dear romantic boy, thought you might be holding hands and chastely kissing—" he reached over and pinched that elf's cheek, earning himself a hearty swat for his trouble—"and Aglar suspected Lalaith would be huddled in a corner, sobbing, while you glared fiercely from the bed. Thalion, however, surprised us all with his randy suggestion that you would be half-undressed and in a mad clinch." Lalaith turned to that estimable elf and saw him scanning both her and Rûmil for signs of hastily refastened clothing.

"I assure you, we are both fully attired," Rûmil told the older elf with an amused glance. "What have you won, Brethil?"

Brethil's jolly smile faded, and his expression turned to something quite close to a pout. "More lembas," he said sulkily. "There is naught else to wager."

"Perhaps that will teach you to place bets on the behaviour of others," Lalaith said archly, merely raising a brow when he turned a sad face to her. "And now, it is late. Go you all to bed. I think Rûmil will be well enough to travel in two days."

"Two days?" moaned a chorus of bored elves, including Rûmil himself. "But, _meril nîn_," he protested, "I feel quite well enough to ride tomorrow."

She turned a bland face to him as the others glanced at each other at his endearment. "You might be," she conceded, her voice soft but with a thread of steel within, "But you will be even more so the day after." It was said with a great finality, and he slumped back against his pillows. There would be no point in arguing, he knew.

Lalaith shuffled the others out and made to sit in the chair once more, where she had slept the previous nights, but Rûmil slid a grin toward her. "I think that, with our new understanding, you might prefer to share the bed with me?" he asked teasingly. "I promise not to damage your virtue."

She paused in the act of pulling her gown over her head and squinted through the messy curtain of hair falling over her face. "A pity," she drawled. "I had hoped for a good ravishing this night." Clad in her shift, she padded barefoot to the bed and slipped between the sheets. 

"Was that a joke?" Rûmil asked, pulling her close and pressing her hand flat against the warm, smooth skin of his chest. 

"Maybe," she replied serenely, and kissed his shoulder before resting her head on it and closing her eyes. "I am very happy, Rûmil."

"As am I, _meril nîn_. As am I."

_meril nîn_ = my rose


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Yep, I'm still whoring my yahoo group, groups dot yahoo dot com slash group slash cinnamongrrl. 

Got me a new job, which is exhausting me, so I might be taking a tad longer to update than I have been so far… might take two days to write a chapter, instead of just the one. Sorry 'bout that. 

No one's noticed Spike's favourite word yet. I'm gonna make a poll on the yahoo group, so you can pick n' choose which one you think it might be.

The Fall of Night, Part 17

12 February 3019

Rûmil tells me that just across the mountains in the distance lies fair Lorien. He fairly bursts to show it to me, and I confess myself eager to see it. It seems inconceivable to me that trees could ever be so large and strong to support entire houses… as you can see in the margins of the last few pages, he is a fair artist and has been sketching for me the shape of mellyrn leaves and the way the branches arch from the trunks. 

_These past days since Tharbad have been delightful. It seems an odd word to employ, if one considers that we are two injured elves, a woman, and ten other elves who rarely cease their bickering. We are so familiar with each other at this point, it feels rather like a large and boisterous family. _

_Thalion, with his age and solemnity, is the father. He reminds me strongly of Haldir, with his calm demeanor and wicked sense of humour, the only hint of which is a fiendish twinkle in his grey eyes, old and deep as the sea. They all go to him in moments of unsurety, yet he does not buckle under their need for advice and leadership. Rûmil does not begrudge the others their following Thalion's direction—he is the youngest here, and though nominally the captain of the group, he does not act without Thalion's input._

_I think I am the mother, as I cannot seem to stop fussing over everyone. Rûmil asked if I meant to suckle Aglar, or was he old enough to fend for himself? This after I wiped a smear of food from Aglar's lip. Then Aglar said he would not mind my suckling him, not one bit, and Rûmil stopped smiling and developed that very serious expression that indicates bloodshed is to follow. Silly elves._

_Rûmil and Brethil are like Elrond's sons, the mischievous twins. Ever are they playing tricks on the others, favouring poor Erêgmorn as the butt of their jokes over all the rest. Touching to see, however, is Brethil's devotion to his wife, to whom he writes daily. "I shall present the letters to her when I see her," he tells me each day, kissing the folded parchment before tucking it carefully into his tunic._

_Erêgmorn himself is the intense lad, deep and wondering. We speak often of the mysteries of the universe, Erêgmorn and I. He, of course, has had vastly longer to ponder them, so mostly I just listen to him. He seems to like the sound of his own voice. Good thing, then, that it is pleasant to hear._

_Aglar is hasty, a little short-tempered, and the least romantic elf I have met in my life. He has no time for 'fannying about' as he calls all manner of song, dance, art, literature, poetry, and history. He is not old, and is eager to distinguish himself as a warrior among his people. He strives to emulate old Thalion, but lacks that elf's integration of warfare with the gentler arts, as the ideal Eldar should._

_Aras, on the other hand, is the **most** romantic elf I've ever met. He does not neglect his archery, of course, but it does not hold his heart as does the magic of song.. He has a lovely singing voice, and many an hour has been whiled away as he serenades us, but I must admit that there are only so many tunes of doomed love and anguished sacrifice that one can hear before one longs to decapitate one's performer with a blunt and rusty object. Perhaps an old spoon. I knew I should have kept the one from Rûmil's soup… Does romance always have to be gloomy? I ask you._

Tonight I write this in the light of the fire, as we make camp where the Gwathlò River forks into the Mitheithel to the west, and the Bruinen to the east. We shall follow the Bruinen to The Ford, where soon after is found Imladris. So often have I heard the elves call it thus, that I find it hard to think of it now as Rivendell. 

Odd to think that in less than a week, we shall be home again. And odder still to realize that I think of Imladris as 'home'. I do not know what changes will come when we return. Neither Rûmil nor I have mentioned the future; we are content, for now, to enjoy each other as we may without placing expectations on the days to come. 

I have taken to riding before him on his horse as we travel. Sometimes we talk, other times we are silent. By night, we sleep in each other's arms, and I feel a completion I have only ever dreamt of. Even if this is all we will ever have of each other—which I suspect it will be-- it is blissful, and I will enjoy it for as long as I have it. I will hold him as long as I can, and if we are parted, it will not be by my choice.

Fear comes to me betimes, when I think of Imladris and Elrond and Nana. Is she well? Has she yet woken? Is she still asleep, ailing, pained? Will the athelas be able to help her? If not, will she be trapped in a coma until her body can no longer sustain life? Will I be welcomed or shunned at Imladris? Will Elrond forgive me? Has Haldir been summoned, will he be waiting there to shout at me? Will Rûmil stand beside me in my disgrace? Will I be able to withstand the disapproval of the elves for daring to love one of them?

The wondering makes my head ache. I shall go sit with Rûmil now, his touch makes me feel new again.

As he entered the clearing, dimly lit from the small fire in its centre, Rûmil's gaze immediately latched onto Lalaith. He never tired of looking at her, watching her move. The way she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear—her curved, not pointed, ear—fascinated him; the manner in which she bit her lip when thinking what to write entranced him, as did the slight pucker of her brows when deep in thought. Her hands were small, with short nails and inkstains and rough spots like any woman who worked for a living, and he thought that with the firelight flickering over the angles and curves of her fingers there was not a sculptor in the world who could do justice to them.

Much had she changed since they'd met; so earnest and sober she had been, so concerned with her small world. He continued to marvel as she stepped carefully through the new land of humour, of smiles and laughs. Each new discovery for her was a wonderment for him, as well. And he too had changed, for a year ago he never would have even considered a woman to be worthy of his affections. And now… now, he felt as if his heart beat only for her. She had made a grievous error, but had accepted her fault and striven hard to rectify her mistake. Her fortitude was enough to inspire even an elf. 

Lalaith was closing the journal now, her face thoughtful but strained a little; was she sore? She looked up then, and gave him one of her tentative little smiles, lips closed but curled slightly at the corners; still was she unsure of how exactly a mouth did such a thing, and he marveled again at the difference in her. She stood then, and walked to him. The sway of her hips as she walked drew Rûmil's gaze like a pendulum swinging, hypnotizing; she was not of the ethereal, airy realm of the elves, but firmly rooted in the kingdom of the mundane. She sat by him, and even over the fresh scent of the trees and snow around them, he could smell the earthy female scent of her, a scent that elven females lacked, and gloried in it.

It seemed to him that his consciousness had been tugged downward from the stars to reside on the hills and dales of Middle-Earth itself, and Rûmil understood the symbolic nature of it even as he accepted it. Being with Lalaith meant that he would be immersing himself in a subculture, a world separate and uncerebral from that of his people. Few would understand how he could love a mortal, and fewer still would accept her as his mate. It meant turning his back on preconceptions that elfkind had harboured for millennia. 

It pained him to subject her to that prejudice, even as Rûmil recognized that he himself had been guilty of it prior to meeting Lalaith and her grandmother. What had changed in him? He took her hand and turned it palm-up, tracing the lines on it with a fingertip. What had changed was, he no longer looked at her and saw a female of the race of Man. He looked at her and saw **Lalaith**. He looked at her, and he saw love. "Hûn nîn," he murmured into her ear, then nipped at her earlobe.

Lalaith giggled at the touch, the sound still awkward and unfamiliar. Was she ticklish? Rûmil ventured a questing hand toward her ribs, and danced his fingers over them, and she fairly squirmed like a landed trout in her efforts to get away from him. "You **are** ticklish," he declared with a slow smile, and advanced upon her.

"Oh, not fair!" she wailed, bunching up her skirts and trying to run from him, but all too soon she was tangled up in the heavy wool and flopping on her back in the snow. "Aieeeee!" she cried, and scooped up some snow to fling at him in defense.

"You do not want to begin a snow-battle with me," Rûmil advised, a daring glint in his eye. "For my brothers and I have perfected that art, and you would not win, little one."

"Indeed, she would not," agreed Thalion from beside the fire. He stood slowly and stretched with languor before walking negligently toward them. "But would you be so satisfied with yourself if she had a few thousand more years of experience on her side?" And faster than an eye could blink, he had taken up a handful of snow, packed it, and launched it directly at Rûmil. It hit him right in the chest and splattered its icy crystals all over, frosting his handsome face, even glazing his eyebrows and lashes.

Rûmil blinked in surprise before narrowing his gaze. "I accept your challenge," was all he said before ducking behind a tree and proceeding to attack them with vigour. Squealing, Lalaith fell back behind another tree and began forming snowballs as quickly as she could. Thalion snatched them from the steadily growing pile and lobbed them with frightening accuracy at her love.

"Think you we should join in?" Brethil asked Erêgmorn from where they sat idly by the fire. 

But Erêgmorn was spared the need to reply, for just then Rûmil sent a missile right into his face. Sputtering, Erêgmorn spit out the mouthful of snow he'd acquired and glared at everyone within range.

"Two against one seems unfair to me," Aras mentioned, and took up position beside Rûmil, who grinned in welcome at his new compatriot.

"But Lalaith does not count!" protested Brethil. "She could not throw to save her life!"

"She could to save Rûmil's," Aglar mentioned slyly, and slipped into place beside Thalion, who was calmly decimating his foe with deadly accuracy. Rûmil and Aras were covered liberally with smashed snowballs, while Thalion had barely been touched. 

"Brethil!" shouted Rûmil. "Quit your ruminations and come help me!"

Brethil eyed the snowballs whizzing back and forth past him, and sighed. "I must go where my conscience steers me; like the stars, it shall not guide me wrong," he declared. Then to everyone's surprise, he joined Lalaith's group. "She still has not forgiven me for writing in her journal," explained Brethil. "I hope to curry her favour."

That left Erêgmorn. "Fine," he said with mock severity. "By default, I shall join Rûmil." He began laying in a store of snowballs, but surprised them all when he turned on his fellows and began pelting Rûmil and Aras with their own artillery. 

"Traitor!" shouted Rûmil, struggling to defend himself on two fronts. Then Aras too began attacking him. "Turncoat!" he roared, but was swiftly brought low under the barrage of five elves and their icy missiles. 

"I will save you, Rûmil!" Lalaith declared dramatically, and flung herself on top of him, shielding him with her body. "They shall have to go through me to get to you!" Erêgmorn looked thoughtful at her choice of words, but catching Rûmil's warning eye, refrained from comment.

"My saviour," Rûmil purred into her ear, his breath warm on her chilled skin, and suddenly she was shivering in a way that had nothing at all to do with the cold of the February night. The other elves realized at that moment that they all had urgent business to which they must attend immediately, and left the two of them there on the ground.

"You will freeze," Lalaith told him breathlessly, looking down into his face. His eyes were the same dark, velvet-blue as the sky above them, and snowflakes were caught in his golden lashes. She could look at him forever, she thought.

"Not if you are here to keep me warm," he replied, his voice husky, "but you, you shall certainly freeze if we do not get you up." He gently pushed her off him and stood nimbly, extending a hand to her. "And you need to sleep, it is late." She came to her feet, leaning against his chest, moonlight reflecting in her eyes as she gazed up at him with love and longing and trust. "Hûn nîn," he told her again, touching her cheek with his fingertips. "My heart."

Lalaith placed her hand on his chest, above where that organ beat strongly. "How are you feeling?" she asked. "Was this all too strenuous for you? You are yet weak from your injury."

He raised an amber brow. "It has been over a week, Lalaith, and you have healed me quite as good as new." He nuzzled the side of her neck with a cold nose. "Should I provide a demonstration of how recovered I am?"

Her breath started to come more shallowly, and awareness of each other swirled around them in the darkness. "It was the soup, not me," she informed him. "And I would like nothing more than for you to demonstrate." Lalaith traced the edge of his ear with her tongue, causing him to twitch against her. "But think you this is the place and time? By a frozen river, when orcs could attack at any moment, and no bed within ten leagues?" She pulled back a little and smiled once more, this time a slow grin of pure enticement. "I would like not to be distracted our first time by the overhanging threat of death and mayhem, or even of a pinecone digging into unmentionable places."

Rûmil stared at her a long moment. "Was that a joke?"

Lalaith took his hand and led him back toward the fire. "Maybe," she conceded. "Am I getting any better at it?"

He helped her spread out the pallet they shared, then lay down and sighed when she curled herself against him, pulling the blankets over them. "I cannot be sure," he said at last. "I was too distracted."

"I thought it funny," said Brethil from his own pallet across the clearing.

"As did I," piped up Aglar, who stood leaning against a tree, as he was on watch.

"And I," mentioned Erêgmorn from his seat by the fire.

"Argh," said Rûmil, and flung his arm over his eyes in exasperation.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: This is it, folks. The last chapter. I am not sure when the sequel will start coming out, but I'm going to devote some attention to my other, sadly neglected, ongoing fics: Picture and The Gift of Death and Lonely Reign. Also, I've had some groovy ideas for a vignette starring Narcissa Malfoy as well an entire epic revolving around the concept of "Beautiful" (which is the idea I changed the name of this here fic, so I could use it for something else). 

This is not to say I won't be doing ANYthing with the sequel, but… it's not going to be coming as fast n' furious as this one. Therefore and to wit, it could very well be a while. Why not join my yahoo group, reached at groups dot yahoo dot com slash group slash cinnamongrrl. so you can be informed of when I update?

I can't be sure I'll continue at ff.net, because it's constantly buggering up the formatting and posting of my chapters. Your best bet is to join the yahoo group and mark that you only want to receive 'special notices', and you'll get an email telling you when I've started on the sequel. 

Thanks so much x a million, to everyone who reviewed and answered my questions and gave advice. Y'all have been a delight to write for. Knowing there's an appreciative audience out there makes all the difference in the world, and makes me strive harder to create a better story. I hope The Fall of Night has met your expectations for a LOTR fanfic; please let me know if I've failed in any way.

And now, for the conclusion. Explanation of the name-change from Beautiful to The Fall of Night to be found on the yahoo group.

The Fall of Night, Part 18

Lalaith thought it strange that Imladris should look identical to how it had at their departure over a month before. Not a thing had changed—the trees blanketing the hills cradling the valley, in which reposed that ancient city, were still glazed with ice and sparkling like lengths of pure diamond. The Last Homely House's gables and terraces were still frosted liberally with snow, making the structure look more like a confection than a building. Everything was of silver and blue and grey, and yet looked more welcoming than any ice-encrusted house should have.

The elves' faces brightened, and they nudged their horses to a brisker step. Lalaith only sighed, and let her mount plod along as it would. Though she would be glad to be rid of this journey, with its endless travel and rough living and lustful monarchs with frisky hands, there had been a certain freedom to it she had never before experienced, and she found herself reluctant to leave it behind.

It was the first time in her life she could recall venturing so far from her Nana, she realized, and had been forced to rely upon herself exclusively. There had been no one to soothe and comfort her, and yet daily had more stress been piled upon her. And yet, she had not succumbed to despair. A fine glow of pride filled her at this knowledge—her secret fear that she would not be able to function without Naurë directing her had been disproven, dispelled. 

I do not need her any more, Lalaith thought with a pang of sadness, knowing she was finally an adult. She loved Nana, and always would, but the blind terror that had driven her to the extreme actions that had precipitated the journey in the first place was gone. Squaring her shoulders resolutely, she clucked to her horse, urging it to greater speed.

She did not remember her mother, except for a flash of pale hair and green eyes. Papa had said Mama had a bad temper and itchy foot—Lalaith now knew that to mean, wanderlust—but refused to speak of her beyond that. She wondered what had spurred Mama to wed with her father, if her foot had itched so—Lacho had been a merchant when Mama had met him, married him, bore his child. What had made her decide, one day, that the life of a vagrant's mistress was preferable to that of a respectable, comfortable merchant's wife?

Papa had not been the same since that day, Nana told her. Always a quiet man, he became taciturn, and it had fallen increasingly upon Naurë to both raise Lalaith and run his business as well as her own healing practice, as he did not want to deal with any customers or suppliers. It came as little surprise to anyone when he simply did not get out of bed one morning. 

Naurë had not wept at his burial, for he had died long before in all but body. Her daughter had passed seven years earlier, leaving a bereaved husband who swiftly drank himself to death, and Coru. Ah, Coru. With his ruddy hair and dark, flashing eyes he had charmed enough maidens to earn for himself the sobriquet of "Virgin's Bane."

"It is nothing to be proud of," Nana had scolded him, but ever had he just shot her an engaging grin and sauntered out to cure some other hapless girl of her chastity. Lalaith was still amazed it had taken her so long to realize what was her cousin's occupation… after a youth spent in dissolution, what else could he have become, but a pirate?

The shades of twilight were drooping upon them when their mounts' hooves clattered upon the cobblestones in Imladris' courtyard, and elves began to pour from every doorway. Lalaith found herself scanning them with apprehension, and the sight of dark hair made her heart pound until she realized it was only Elrohir and Elladan. Each clasped Rûmil's arm and laughed with him, and she felt herself relax slightly that she had not to confront he who had shown her such scorn but weeks earlier. 

"You are welcome, Lalaith," said a voice from behind her, and Lalaith somehow managed to both jump and spin at the same time, all while emitting a loud 'eep' of shock. Rûmil and Brethil laughed, and Lalaith started the unholy hell out of Elrond and his sons when she smiled too, swatting at her love and his friend. 

"Be you careful, else I will force more soup into you," she said in playful warning before turning from them. Visibly steeling herself for what was to come, she faced Elrond.

"Am I truly welcome, my lord?" she asked quietly. "For if I am not, I will give you the athelas, and be gone from here this night."

"As will I," added Rûmil, coming to stand by her. If his proximity to her had not told the story clearly enough, then Lalaith's gaze as it feasted upon him would have done. Her eyes were lit with hope and love, and he was no less joyful as he looked down into her face, turned up as it was to him like a flower to the sun. 

Elrond studied them a long moment before enfolding Lalaith into a warm embrace. "Truly, you are welcome, daughter," he said at last. "I rue my harshness when I sent you from here, and daily have I regretted my words and actions." There was a wry twist to his lips. "Will you forgive me?" Lalaith could only nod as tears flooded her eyes. "I am pleased," he told her, squeezing her hands in his before pulling away. "Let us go inside, for it is cold and your nose is quite red."

Lalaith frowned at that, and jogged a little to keep up with his long-legged stride. "But, do you not want the athelas? How fares Nana?"

At the mention, all around them fell silent and still. Even the horses ceased their snuffling of nostrils and swishing of tails, as if they sensed a great unrest among the two-legged of them. 

"Do not tell me all is for naught," Lalaith whispered as Rûmil came to wrap an arm around her waist. "Do not tell me she is dead."

Elrond's face was very grave, and the light dimmed in his eyes for a moment. "No," he said finally. "She is not dead. But she does not live, either. She-" His words broke off then, as if they could not bear to be spoken. "I do not know what has happened. Never has something like this occurred, never," he forced out. "If these athelas cannot help her, then…" Elrond's voice trailed away, and he could only shrug, his shoulders slumping under his brocade tunic in defeat.

His words frightened her more than anything she could have imagined, apart from Rûmil's injury. Something so dire and puzzling that even Elrond, the finest healer of Middle-Earth, was concerned? With a wordless cry of alarm, she pulled away from Rûmil and, snatching up her skirts, began to run to her grandmother's room. But when she got there, it was empty. The bed was neatly made, and all of Naurë's possessions were in orderly array around the chamber. She turned to run toward the healing wing of the house, but was blocked by Rûmil in the corridor.

"Hûn nîn," he said in what he hoped were soothing tones. "Calm yourself, becoming upset will not help Naurë."

She sagged into his embrace, allowing his arms to band around her and support her. "I cannot bear the thought of her suffering because of me, Rûmil," she whispered. 

"She does not suffer," Elrond said from behind Rûmil, who gently put Lalaith back and stepped away. "Come, I will take you to her." He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and patted it comfortingly. "You should know, however, that great changes have come about since last you saw your grandmother."

"Great changes?" Her voice was thin with alarm, and her face was peaked and drawn, bleached to the shade of milk. The smattering of freckles across her nose stood out in high relief and made her look much younger than her score-and-three years. She imagined all the rigours of illness, and what ravages they could take on an elderly woman, and the tears that had only just stopped flowing began afresh.

He nodded. "She is still unconscious. I hope these," he gestured to the small bundle of athelas in his hand, "will help awaken her." And he pushed open the door. The figure on the bed was covered to the throat with the blankets, and its head was turned away to the wall. The room was lit only by the light of a single candle, and Lalaith could not see clearly. "Brighter light than this seems to hurt her, even with closed eyes," Elrond explained. 

As they came closer, Lalaith noticed that her grandmother's head seemed… different. Squinting, she peered closer, and found that the wispy white locks of hair had a full two inches of dark roots. "What is this?" she asked, her voice low and shocked, as she pointed with a trembling finger.

Elrond's lips pressed tightly together. "That is not all," he said, not really replying, and grasped Naurë's chin with gentle fingers. Turning his friend's face, Lalaith felt a wave of weakness wash over her, and slumped back against Rûmil's strong body to keep from collapsing to the ground.

For Naurë's face was not that of a woman in her ninth decade of life, sunken and lined, but of a woman of two score years—experience and pain writ upon it, the freshness of youth fleeing but not yet gone entirely. Eyebrows that had been bushy and grey were sleek and dark, and lips no longer withered were the pale pink of healthy middle-age. When Lalaith peeled back the blankets, it was to reveal straight, firm-fleshed limbs and smooth skin boasting not age-spots, but freckles. Naurë's hands and feet lacked the crumpled arthritic twisting they had suffered in her last years, for which Lalaith was thankful—she remembered long nights of massaging soothing salves into her grandmother's pain-riddled joints when the rains came.

Elrond stared down at Naurë, his face inscrutable. "She looks as she did when your grandfather died," he told Lalaith. 'I judge her to be in her fortieth year, or near to it."

Lalaith felt like her stomach had plummeted to her feet, and was intensely grateful when Rûmil pushed her gently into a chair by the bedside. Elrond had covered Naurë again, tucking the blankets under her arms, and Lalaith took up her grandmother's hand, marveling at the straight fingers and soft skin. 

"Perhaps if you talk to her, she will awaken," Elrond suggested softly. "She seems to stir when she hears my voice, perhaps hearing yours will speed her recovery."

She nodded and fastened her gaze on Naurë's newly-youthful face. "Nana," she began uncertainly, "it's me, it's Lalaith. I'm here with Elrond and Rûmil. We've just returned, Rûmil and I, from a great adventure." Rûmil snorted skeptically behind her, but she ignored him. "We fought orcs, many orcs, Nana, and had a wild midnight escape from them." Naurë's placid countenance did not change, and Lalaith felt her spirits flag even lower.

"We went to Minhiriath, Nana, and a more dismal place you have never seen. Its king, Heleg, is a wretched fellow, and tried many times to bed me." Now it was Elrond's turn to make a noise—he choked in surprise, more at Rûmil's stony expression of displeasure than at Lalaith's words. "But ever did I thwart him, for I am canny, much like she who raised me." Tears clogged her throat, but she forged on regardless, her careful scrutiny not missing how Naurë's eyelids had begun to flutter more often.

"I think I am beginning to understand humour, Nana, for I have laughed twice, and am making myself smile at least once a day, whether I want to or not. Rûmil tickles me daily, which helps." She was almost holding her breath; there, was Naurë frowning? Lalaith was sure her grandmother's mouth had turned down, and her forehead creased a little…

"I must tell you about Rûmil, Nana," she continued. "I know you remember how things were between he and I when the Fellowship left; ever were you warning me about him." She glanced back at her love, and smirked at his raised brow. "And you were right, as always. He is a very bad boy." Now he crossed his arms over his chest and began tapping his foot impatiently. Lalaith sighed dramatically. "But it would seem that I **like** bad boys, Nana, for I am helpless to resist his charms."

Behind them, Elrond whispered, "Was that a joke?"

And Rûmil replied, just as quietly, "Maybe. It is ever hard to tell with her."

Lalaith was ignoring them. "I love him, Nana," she said, and pressed Naurë's hand to her cheek as the tears came. "Never did I think he would care for me in return, but he does. My heart feels like it would burst from me, so filled with joy is it." Rûmil's hand slipped under the heavy curtain of her hair to cup the back of her neck at those words, squeezing tenderly. "I would have you here with us, to share in our happiness, Nana. Please come back to us. We miss you, Elrond and Haldir and I. Our lives are much diminished without you."

"And what if Legolas returns soon? Would you have me tell him you will not leave your bed to see him?" She bowed her head over Naurë's hand, and sobbed. "Please come back to us, Nana." Rûmil and Elrond also bowed their heads, almost embarrassed to witness such a private moment of pain and despair. 

"Why do you call me that? Who are you?" asked a raspy voice, and all three heads immediately snapped up, and three gazes locked on the figure in the bed. Naurë had turned her head to look at the girl crouched beside her, weeping on her, before her clear, dark eyes moved to the tall elves close behind. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her words were strong. "Where is this?" And then, most alarming of all: "Who am I?"


End file.
